


The Aftermath of Losing Everything

by transitorywhim



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Force-Sensitive Reader, Hurt/Comfort, No use of y/n, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Reader-Insert, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Soft Din Djarin, Touch-Starved, but surprise he does, din doesn't think he'll ever feel anything close to love again, so soft, soft!Din
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transitorywhim/pseuds/transitorywhim
Summary: After parting with Grogu, losing his ship, and battling with the tenets of his Creed — Din is plagued by memories he fears will only ever exist in his past. But when he meets you, he’s surprised to see a bit of himself reflected in your eyes... and the family he still longs for. (Set after S2)—He’s warm. Soft and rough at the same time. His entire weight leans into your palm and you think, this must be what it feels like to hold the entire universe.“I never thought—” he suddenly whispers, a jagged inhale, a shaky exhale, his breath touching your lips. “After I lost the kid,” he continues, his thumb caressing your hand on his cheek. “I never thought I’d feel this again.”You wonder what he means by ‘this.’ Touch? Tenderness? Warmth? Care? Or something much, much deeper?
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin & You, Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 38
Kudos: 151





	1. You’ve Been Lonely Too Long

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably my favorite work I’ve ever done and I hope you all like it! Your thoughts and feelings are very welcome and very wanted! Please drop me a comment or come chat with me on Tumblr (transitorywhim)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the Mandalorian learn more about each other as you travel the galaxy together. It isn't easy chipping away at his armor but nothing worth doing ever is. Eventually, you feel closer to him than you've ever felt with anyone before. But will your budding friendship be able to survive the secret you've been harboring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I really hope you enjoy the start of my little story. I've done a lot of research when it comes to lore, planets, etc. (outside of my pre-existing fangirl knowledge). But I've taken a few creative liberties. I want to know what you think, so please drop me a comment!

  


### i.

Memories keep him awake more than he cares to admit.

They conjure themselves unbidden, slithering through the iron bars of his mind. And just before they burrow, just before they brand his brain, just before they emerge from the shadows and he can recognize them — _images of bright eyes and petal ears, sound bites of gentle coos, memories he wants to keep locked like a treasure_ — they vanish like vapor.

Sometimes he tries to chase them, like a valuable quarry. But even illustrious bounty hunters like Din Djarin know what it’s like to lose. Especially at night, when memories morph into vicious nightmares... and _he_ becomes the prey.

If he ever does sleep, he sure as hell never rests.

And no one would catch wise. That’s the beauty of beskar. Because — despite the deep purple rings circling his wrinkled eyes, the constant dry and chapped state of his lips, and the uncharacteristically unkempt stubble on his jaw — when he walks into a room, everyone only sees the harsh glint of metal armor, the precise swagger in his gait, the loaded blaster at his belt. A Mandalorian: legend coming to life. And everyone quakes in their boots.

Everyone except you.

After he had left Gideon’s light cruiser, helmet replaced on his head — an imposter’s crown — he’d expected to say his goodbyes and carry on the way he always did before everything changed, before the kid. Alone.

He hadn’t known his next move. But picking up another stray? Not part of the non-existent plan.

Yet here he is, coasting in hyperspace aboard his cold, newly bargained light freighter, watching his crewmate modify the jammers.

“Hand me that driver, will you?” You huff, wiping sweat off your brow.

He had found you on Tatooine almost three months ago, fighting off some spice-high lowlife in a dark adobe alley. He remembers seeing you throw a heavy punch to the man’s jaw, extending your other trembling hand toward his throat before softly shutting your eyes, brows pinched in gentle focus.

Something about you had felt familiar, something he couldn’t shake. Your outstretched arm had sparked a memory of tiny green claws. And it had all happened so quickly. You had your eyes closed, the man had reached for his blaster, but Din had always been the faster shot.

Smoke had wafted from the man’s chest, your eyes had opened in shock, and Din had disappeared before you could thank him.

Instead, you had managed to stow away on his ship that same night and hire yourself as his new crewmate.

“I have nowhere to go. No home, no family,” you had explained, eyes glistening. When he’d scrutinized you, he only found a small bag slung over your shoulder and a short, chewed-on pencil tucked behind your ear. “I’m a good worker. I can cook and I’m a decent pilot, a better mechanic. And I’m… crafty?”

“I work alone.” He’d said it so surely, but a cloud of sadness had hovered over the words as he’d forced saliva down his dry throat.

“You don’t have to. I can be a valuable asset to you. Take some weight off your shoulders. Be someone to talk to.”

You had glanced at his stoic frame, his silence filling the room like a smoke grenade.

“Well, _you_ don’t have to talk. But I can be helpful.”

There had been something in your eyes, or maybe even beyond them… something in _you_ , something so achingly familiar. He’d felt it floating around the ship, radiating off your skin, seeping through his beskar armor. And he’d sighed because he couldn’t have stopped his next words from tumbling off his tongue if he wanted to.

“Just don’t touch anything.”

He remembers how you’d gasped, your arms wrapping tightly around his torso without a second thought. And he’d just stiffened like solid carbonite, not allowing himself to dwell on how warm and soft you felt, and he’d gently pushed you off, disappearing into the cockpit.

You’re still chatting away as you continue tinkering with the jammers. You’re _definitely_ a talker. But to him, everyone seems that way when silence is his chosen weapon of survival.

Below that primary qualification of ‘someone to talk to,’ he’d realized almost right after you joined his crew of two that your resume checked out. You’d been invaluable on this new, unfamiliar ship — helping him modify it until it had some of the Razor Crest’s best qualities. Some.

When small memories like that start flooding in and try to take him under headfirst, he thinks it’s better to be alone. At least then, he can decide whether to sink or swim. So, he excuses himself to the cockpit and you hum in acknowledgment, continuing your chatter despite being your own audience. 

He spends a lot of time here in solitary silence, staring at the stars as they reflect off the tiny metal ball that hangs from a string on an unused lever. It’s the only token he has from that life — the days of flying the Crest system to system with a giggling child in the backseat.

More often than not, you find him here exactly like this: helmet hung low, a silver sphere pinched between two gloved fingers, millions of confined thoughts racing through his mind faster than hyperspace and clawing at his skull.

When you find him like this, you try not to speak. Just sit in the co-pilot’s seat and watch the stars with him.

And as he studies the little gear knob from his past life, the one question that passes through his mind the most is:

_What can you do when the reason you’re hurting is likely the only thing that can heal you?_

### ii.

After many months on the freighter, you’re sure of two things when it comes to your new crewmate:

First, the Mandalorian doesn’t talk much. Or ever, really.

But you quickly get used to your questions — and there are many — being answered with a curt “yes” or “no,” sometimes a grunt or sigh thrown in when the question is just right. You don’t mind too much, it’s enough to get you familiar with the way the ship works and you always know what to expect from him. 

When he’s not outside hunting a quarry on some Maker-forsaken outer rim dustball, leaving you inside to tamper with the ship’s outdated systems, he’s usually on one side of the freighter and you’re on the other. If he seems busy, you leave his food outside his quarters, and later, you find his dish empty and washed in the storage cupboard. And when you’re fighting for sleep in your bed, you hear his footsteps echoing all night long. But there are times when you both find yourselves in the small, shared space of the cockpit, when your desire to see the corners of space beyond Tatooine becomes too great to stay away. In those moments under the domed viewport — faced with a myriad of vibrant hues and tremendous textures and infinite stars — he doesn’t speak and you can’t find the words, giving way to a tranquil, transfixing silence neither of you wants to escape.

The second thing you’re sure of is: the Mandalorian gets hurt, a lot.

You can’t count the number of times you’ve watched him drag himself and an unconscious body onto his ship or holed himself up in the fresher, hissing in pain as he tended to his own wounds.

But this time, he comes back and collapses outside of the ship, unable to even pull himself up the ramp, much less the dead weight of the quarry. There’s hardly a thought in your mind as your feet scurry to his side, sprawled across the ground beside his target. You don’t wait for permission before you’re reaching for the gloved hand pressed firmly to the side of his stomach. 

“No,” he grits out between his teeth, groaning when the tiny word seems to tear him apart where he’s already been gashed. “The quarry.”

You frown, almost rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. Always the job first.

Still, no arguments pass your lips when you turn to pull the heavy, unconscious Trandoshan by his bound wrists. It takes all of your strength to drag him up the steep incline of the freighter’s ramp, through the main corridor, and into the supply closet, Mando’s makeshift prison. You’d asked him about it before, one of your many questions, wondering if he should consider more secure holding quarters. And he’d responded with a surprisingly long (for him) statement, “Not as good as a mobile carbonite freezing system, but it does the job.”

After chaining up the quarry’s hands and ankles and locking the closet, you nearly trip over yourself while sprinting back to the groaning Mandalorian. You kneel beside him, pulling the hand pressed against his stomach over your shoulder to lift him on his feet. A harsh, metallic scent suddenly fills your lungs, drawing your gaze to the blood-stained palm of his glove dangling over your shoulder. You do your best to ignore it, refocusing your energy on lugging him into the ship. As soon as you reach the top of the ramp, your strength gives out, sending both your bodies collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. It’s a challenge disentangling yourself from his heavy limbs but once you manage, you quickly turn to examine him before his hand stops you again.

“Gang on our tail,” he rasps, coughing then groaning in pain. “Get us out of here.”

Your lips press into a straight line, a war waging behind your furrowed brow as you decide whether or not it’s smart to leave him alone, bleeding on the floor of the main hold. But his hand shakes as he squeezes your wrist in what you think is meant to feel comforting. You release a deep sigh before getting up to close the ramp and set coordinates in the cockpit.

When you return minutes later with a medpac, you find him stretched out on his back, his neck arching with a groan, and his glove clutching his stomach once more. You kneel beside him to assess the damage, reaching your hand to his waist before he grabs you again.

“You don’t have to,” he grunts. “I can do it.”

“I know you can,” you say, gently removing the glove trapping your wrist. “But so can I. And _I_ can actually move my limbs at a normal, painless speed, get the job done quicker. So, please, let me.”

He sighs, giving a quick nod of his helmet before allowing you to partially remove his armor.

You start with the breastplate, remove the thick padding over his stomach, then grab the ever-present pencil behind your ear and use the dull end to lift the edge of his brown undershirt, just enough to reveal the knife wound in his side.

“What happened?” You gasp, quickly gathering antiseptic, a laser cauterizer, and bacta patches from the medpac.

“Ambushed,” he grunts, wincing as you clean the cut, your breath sliding across his skin as you lean in close.

“I’ve sustained some pretty bad knicks myself. Nothing as bad as this,” you joke lightly, switching the antiseptic for the cauterizer. When the laser touches his skin, he gasps and curls in on himself as you burn the wound closed. Instinctively, you grab his hand, the one not stained with blood, and interlace your fingers with his on the ship’s floor, letting him squeeze your palm as a distraction. “Nothing I couldn’t fix up. When you’re surviving on your own, you have to learn how to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” he says quietly. _I work alone,_ he’d said when you met. 

Even through the shadowy visor of his helmet, you feel his eyes on yours and stare back openly. But as always, you only see your own warped reflection in the silver gleam of his beskar.

“It helps to have the proper supplies,” you chuckle, tearing your eyes away from his helmet to finish closing up his wound. “This bacta patch should fix you up real good.”

After smoothing the gel bandage against his skin, your fingertips linger only a second too long on the exposed warmth of his tanned stomach. You pull down the hem of his shirt, starting to reach for the pieces of iron covering his arm but feel him stop you by squeezing your joined hands.

“They only got one jab in,” he says, his voice sounding more relaxed, almost cocky. But when he sees the worry on your face, his thumb sweeps lightly across your hand and he squeezes once more. “I promise. I’m fine.”

“You’d better be,” you warn, shaking your joined hands in front of your face like a cranky geezer. “Because I’m not carrying _two_ unconscious bodies off this ship when we land.”

He huffs out a short breath, only wincing slightly at the movement. Without another word, you pull his arm around your shoulder once more, limping him toward his sleeping quarters to rest. But you stop just outside the door, not wanting to encroach on his privacy.

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his hand against the doorway.

“Your gloves,” you say, his helmet tilting in confusion when you stare at his hand pointedly. “Let me clean them for you.”

He tries to argue but you won’t have any of it, simply extending your palm out toward him until he reluctantly pulls at the yellow leather tips on his fingers and hands them over.

“You can leave your shirt outside your quarters, too. I don’t want you stinking up the ship with your bloody clothes. Wash up. Get some rest. And be more careful next time,” you say, smiling and walking backward as you talk.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and you swear you hear a ghost of a smile in his voice.

Before you can question him on it, he presses the button to his quarters and slips inside.

### iii.

Time seems to pass quicker on the Mandalorian’s ship since the Trandoshan incident. And this man of few words quickly becomes a man of… _just slightly more_ than a few words. Nevertheless, as his crewmate, you’ve learned quite a lot more about him.

One, he never stays in one place for long. He’s a bounty hunter, of course, and he takes multiple jobs at once. That means, together, you visit at least four different planets in the span of a few weeks, expertly flying around New Republic and Imperial scanners without a hitch. Two, he likes your cooking, a lot. You can tell because, by the end of the night, after a soft “thank you” buzzed from his helmet, his dish would always be licked clean — two dishes when you’d made his favorite. Sometimes, he’d even surprise you and try to recreate your recipes, generously leaving bowls of delicious food at your door. But he never eats where you can watch, enjoying the meals in secret and quietly washing up for you when you’re on the other side of the ship and can’t argue with him about it. Three, he doesn’t remove his helmet when you’re around, maybe even when he’s alone. _“This is the way,”_ he’d mumble on occasion, a Creed that sounds like a foreign language even falling from his lips. Four, although he says he works alone, you see the way his helmet leans toward you when you speak and notice how his knees point in your direction when you sit side by side in the cockpit, gravitating toward you yet deeply cautious of drawing too close. And five, he’s lonely. You know because you’ve carried the same sadness in your chest almost all your life.

Several months on his ship have opened him up to giving more detailed answers to your numerous questions, and you take each opportunity where you can, desperate to unveil new pieces of his mind.

Tonight, Mando is particularly relaxed after capturing the last of four bounties, coordinates already set to turn them in. An empty bowl of bone broth sits beside his first helping. He leans back comfortably in his pilot seat as the stars shine off his chest plate and you ask about his past adventures.

“Has it always been just you?” Your voice comes out as a whisper, not wanting to disturb this content stillness, but thinking of all the times you’ve found him sitting alone in the cockpit clutching onto a silver ball.

He’s silent for a moment, thinking over his words. He doesn’t turn to face you when he answers, “No. There was... a child. Not long ago.”

You think back to when you had first met him, how he’d said, _“I work alone,”_ how those words had seemed devastatingly true — in the way only a person who’s lost everything could say them so honestly.

“Yours?”

A beat. “Yeah,” he answers, a small crackling sound coming from his helmet. “Yes, a foundling. But he was as my own.”

“What happened?”

The cockpit stays silent save for the dull tones of the control board’s beeps and ticks. Mando reaches for that silver sphere, leans forward in his seat, and he holds it to the crown of his helmet.

“I... had to let him go.”

His voice breaks over the vowels, just slightly but you hear it: the familiar shattered sound of loss. It radiates off of him in waves, penetrating your skin and crawling through your bloodstream until your own heart aches for the ghost this child left behind.

“What was he like?” 

He’s quiet again and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But suddenly, Mando swivels his chair to face you, the silver ball clutched tight against his chest, and he chuckles. It’s fleeting but it’s a sound you’ve never heard in all your months aboard his ship. A lovely sound you’ll never forget.

“This was his favorite toy,” the Mandalorian says, lifting the ball in the air for you to see. “He was a stubborn kid. Always getting into trouble.”

You smile, begging him to continue.

“He could do things I couldn’t even imagine. He saved me, in more ways than one. We were a clan of two.”

“A family,” you agree.

He stills for a moment, ponders your words, and hangs his head. “Yeah, a family.”

“What’s his name?”

“Grogu.” You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “His name is Grogu.”

“Grogu,” you whisper, testing the name on your tongue. “Can you describe him for me?”

You pull out a small, worn booklet of parchment from your pouch and the short pencil from behind your ear. His helmet tilts toward you curiously and you can almost imagine his eyes squinting behind the visor.

“Remember when I said I was crafty? Not a load of bantha crap,” you chuckle, waving the pencil at him. “I made a trade with some stingy Jawas to get these relics.”

He nods, quietly examining the antiquated drawing pad.

“Tell me,” you plead.

His helmet’s gaze drops back to the silver ball and he sighs a wistful sound.

“Grogu was — _is_ special. A green, wrinkly, big-eared... very special little kid.”

“A green, wrinkly child?” You ask, looking up from the paper.

Mando laughs again and you can’t help but smile too. He describes Grogu like he’s a father mooning over his son’s first steps. You’ve never heard him talk so much, so joyfully yet sorrowfully all at once. There’s a wistfulness in his voice, a rasp that tells you he’s not used to putting it into words, at least not out loud, but he still wants to honor Grogu with every word he has. As he speaks, you can _feel_ — almost _see_ the image of Grogu in your mind. It’s crystal clear like your brain is reaching out and can somehow access every archive in Mando’s memories. It’s like a trance and you have to physically shake your head to release yourself.

“He means a lot to you,” you say, a matter of fact, tearing off the weathered page and giving him your quick sketch, your hand resting on one of his pauldrons. “I’m sure you mean a lot to him.”

Mando silently turns back to the controls, his fingers still clutching the little ball as he grips the page in the other hand.

He’s especially glad to have his helmet at this moment because he feels water pooling behind his eyelids as he stares at the uncanny drawing.

“That’s him,” he whispers, looking upon his boy. It’s almost an exact likeness, although in grayscale (he’ll have to find you other colors somehow). But it means everything to see Grogu again, even on a page, after months of only seeing him in fleeting dreams and distorted nightmares. 

“Thank you,” he says, his hand with the drawing joining your hand on his pauldron.

You smile as he neatly, delicately folds the paper and tucks it into the small pouch on his shoulder harness, keeping the drawing close to his heart. You sit together in comfortable silence as the ship drops out of hyperspace.

“I guess you weren’t lying when we met,” he finally says.

“What do you mean?”

“You _are…_ crafty,” he chuckles, his fingers tenderly stroking the leather pouch on his shoulder. “And you’re a good person to talk to.”

### iv.

The Mandalorian doesn’t ask you to stay on the freighter while he works anymore.

He doesn’t want you _with_ him while he hunts, can’t afford the distraction. But he doesn’t want you to feel trapped either. So, he tells you to explore villages and draw landscapes of forested planets with the set of pigmented chalks he’d sweetly gifted you after finishing a job one day. ( _“I saw them at some backwater trading post. Thought you might like them,” he’d shrugged._ ) 

He doesn’t say it out loud but you know he trusts you even more now, trusts you won’t get into trouble, trusts you can take care of yourself if it finds you anyway. And he knows you appreciate it after being stranded on Tatooine your entire life. Each time he lands on a new planet, he sees entire galaxies reflected in your awestruck eyes and he gains a new page of artwork to add to his growing collection.

His latest quarry leads the pair of you to Felucia, on the hunt for some scum who — according to the Mandalorian — is probably hoping to harvest the planet’s Nysillin, a valuable healing herb, to trade for hefty credits. 

Felucia is a beautiful world you could never have even conjured in your dreams. A dense jungle of flora extends toward the upper atmosphere, kissing the yellow-tinted clouds and glowing orange and teal when night falls. Vibrant purple fungi tower high above the ferns, providing shade that did little to combat the damp heat.

You felt a strange energy running through your veins the moment you stepped off the ship, blaming it on the humidity instantly sticking to your skin like honey, a welcome discomfort compared to the sands of Tatooine.

On Tat, the sand made a habit of blowing and whipping around your ankles, scraping slashes and slivers into your skin. You’d hardly ever felt it, soft skin having evolved into a numb armor over many years on the desolate planet. Even as crystal particles would fly into your eyes, fill your lungs, nestle into your hair — you’d hardly felt it.

Sand is nothing compared to the sinister shudder that would run down your spine as you’d make haste through dark alleyways. The hairs on the back of your neck would rise and stiffen. You’d _feel_ it more than you’d see it: the mass of darkness constantly looming over your shoulder, disfigured shadows merging with yours on the sand. And a voice would ask you each time: _are you willing to do what you must to survive?_

You almost had that night you met the Mandalorian. You remember your attacker’s voice like you just woke up from a nightmare, coarse and rough, burying itself under your skin like the Tatooine sands. His hands had felt slimy and sticky like the Felucian air as he’d gripped your waist. That same question of will had rung in your ears and your soul had urged you with a whisper: _“Survive.”_ Your hand had quaked as you’d lifted it and focused your thoughts on your attacker’s throat. 

Then, before you could save yourself, you’d heard blaster fire and exhaled a staggered breath, gazing upon the Mandalorian as your hand had dropped limp at your side. You never turned back.

Now, you explore more systems than you knew existed, a Mandalorian warrior at your side, filling your weathered drawing pad with sketches of worlds beyond imagination.

Felucia would be a quick job, he’d assured you when he’d left. Easy and clean. Besides, no matter how beautiful the planet seemed — you couldn’t afford to stay longer than one rotation.

The Mandalorian had warned you of carnivorous plants and mysterious beasts. He hadn’t asked you to stay on the ship, but you knew he’d feel better if you kept close by. In the low shrubs and behind sky-scraping stalks, a deep grumble echoed through the jungle — something hungry and menacing. You stayed far from the sounds, choosing to explore the other colorful flowers that lived nearer to the ruddy soil, not straying too far into the mystifying wilds. You scribble away in your booklet, airways filled with a fresh petrichor that reminds you of a watery star system the Mandalorian brought you to a couple of months back. Your chalks fly across the tiny page as you capture this planet’s inimitable beauty as best you can.

Hardly four hours pass before you hear the Mandalorian’s heavy footsteps returning. Behind him trudges a stout man, wrists in binders behind him as he follows the bounty hunter in defeat.

“You’re getting slow, Mando,” you say, grinning when he comes to a stop in front of you, hands on his hips, a slight tilt to his helmet.

“What are you drawing?” He asks, ignoring your previous comment. He kneels beside you, silently studying the chalk-smudged red flower on the page as you stroke the final flourishes of your sketch. You hand him your booklet, noticing how the quarry leans over Mando’s shoulder to sneak a peek as well.

“Beautiful,” Mando says, tone even, as if speaking a fact instead of opinion.

“Well, it’s easy to see beauty when it’s all around,” you answer, cheeks heated as you gesture to the plant life surrounding you.

“It is,” he agrees, tenderness seeping into his modulated voice. When you look up at him, his visor is already trained on your face, unwavering as you crouch eye to eye with each other.

“Hate to break it to ya,” the quarry says, coughing dramatically behind you. “But all this ‘beauty’ wants to eat us alive, so I suggest we get off this hellhole before we all become dinner.”

The Mandalorian sighs, tearing his gaze to probably glare daggers at the quarry. 

“Makes you wonder what you were doing on this ‘hellhole’ in the first place,” he says, sarcastic to a fault.

“It wasn’t my choice,” the quarry argues, lifting his hands in defense. “I’m here to do a job, just like y—”

A shrill, deafening screech cuts through the jungle like a blade and the group of you shrink at the violent sound. 

“Let’s go,” Mando says immediately, helping you on your feet and pushing the quarry into the freighter.

You watch from the ground behind him as Mando runs in to lock the quarry inside the storage closet, turning only when the screeching sound suddenly stops. Your eyes squint as you try to find a sign of movement in the dense jungle.

“Watch out!”

Before you can register the anxiety in the Mandalorian’s voice, you’re knocked on your back into the red soil by a hulking creature.

It towers over you, casting you completely in its shadow as it slowly stalks forward. Your vision blurs as the horrifying monster draws closer — wrinkled white skin stretching the expanse of its belly and blue spine-covered leather painting its face and shell-armored back. 

“I’m guessing this is the rancor you were telling me about?” You grit through your teeth, inching away like a pathetic crab along the shoreline. Drool leaks from the rancor’s jagged teeth in dangling strands as it reaches long, webbed claws toward you. 

Before they can reach your body, you see the Mandalorian’s whipcord wrap around its arm. On the other end of the cord, Mando yanks the rancor away from you, rapid blaster fire whizzing through the air, hitting the beast with deadly precision. But the blasts bounce off its thick, impenetrable skin as it continues prowling toward you with renewed anger.

“Good guess,” Mando grunts, flying above the rancor with his jetpack, shooting at it in quick succession.

The rancor turns its attention away from you to the shiny flying pest blasting at its leathery skin. It’s at least six times the Mandalorian’s height but seems worlds larger from your view on the ground. 

“Stars, I thought you said these things were peaceful!” You shout.

“The Felucians don’t mind them. You must have scared it with your aggressive craftiness,” he quips, and you imagine what his smirk might look like under his helmet, even as the rancor approaches closer.

Mando launches miniature whistling explosives at the beast, but they do little to deter it. He throws grenades but the rancor swats them away like insects. It stomps toward the Mandalorian, its maw gaping wide as it releases a petrifying roar.

“Mando!” You scream when the rancor’s claws grab him by his jetpack, plowing his body into the ground with brute force.

The Mandalorian groans as he tries to stand back up, falling on his back when his bones prove too weary to support his weight.

“Get to the ship,” he rasps, voice crackling through the helmet with static. He raises his arm, flamethrower igniting at the rancor’s face, making it fumble backward with another roar. Only seconds later, the fire sputters and dies out. “Dank farrik!” He curses, reaching for his hopeless blaster once more before the monster’s claws slap it from his hand. “Get to the ship!” He yells.

Rooted to the ground like the surrounding plants, you’re helpless bantha fodder as you watch the rancor slowly creep forward, stretching to its full height above the Mandalorian. It feels like you’re sinking in quicksand — your feet and your mind hopelessly going under.

Then, you hear a soft voice ask a familiar yet distorted question:

 _Are you willing to do what you must so_ he _survives?_

You don’t hesitate. _Anything,_ your soul resolves.

Steadily braced on two feet, you throw out your hand like a whip, focusing all your energy and emotions toward the blue beast. It sends the rancor flying backward like a ragdoll, wailing as it crashes through the thick jungle, loud cracks echoing from the mist as its body breaks every plant in its path. It lands far away with a heavy thud, but you feel it in your veins when it immediately gets on its feet, vengefully sprinting back toward you.

“Can’t say it isn’t persistent,” you mutter.

“How? You—” Mando grunts, a thousand questions on his tongue that will have to wait.

“I’ll explain later,” you huff, yanking his arm over your shoulder and pulling him to the ship. “We need to get out of here.”

“What’s happening?” The quarry yells from inside the locked compartment when he hears footsteps boarding the ship. You drop the Mandalorian onto the floor of the main hold rather unceremoniously, a metallic clanging sound ringing through the freighter. You punch in his code to retract the ship’s ramp before running to the cockpit. Outside the freighter, the rancor’s screeching grows louder and your fingers flit across the control panel to get the ship in the air. The engines whir to life and you swear it’s the second most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

With one final glance at the glowing jungle outside the viewport, thunderous roars softening into a low rumble, the ship finally launches out of Felucia’s atmosphere. Sinking back in the pilot’s seat, you let out a breath you’ve been holding for what feels like years. A labored dragging sound echoes behind you and you snap your head back, instinctively on defense.

But your shoulders relax when you see the Mandalorian gripping the walls of the ship as he attempts to limp closer. You run to his side, carrying his weight as you lead him to sit in the co-pilot’s chair.

“You need to rest,” you whisper, standing in front of him to quickly scan his body for signs of a major injury. “Looks like you got away with just a few shallow cuts and bruises. Nothing a bit of bacta can’t soothe.”

Your words come out like the rapid firing of his blaster before a gloved hand on your wrist stops you from speeding off. 

“What happened back there? How did you...” He asks, his visor lifted at an uncomfortable angle to meet your eyes.

Your lips press into a straight line, brows pinched in worry as you turn away from him to rummage through the medpac.

“I don’t...” you start, letting out a long exhale as you gather your words. “I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I’ve been able to do things I can’t explain — move things without touching them.”

You turn back to him, bacta in hand as you study expressionless beskar.

“Sometimes, it frightens me. I have no idea where it comes from or why it happens or how to control it. I never do it around other people. I didn’t want them to know,” you admit quietly, dropping your gaze to his vambrace, wordlessly asking if he still trusts you to remove it. He nods, visor watching you with masked curiosity as you roll back his sleeves and expose bruised, tan skin. “I’m afraid of what could happen if people knew.”

You don’t tell him how you don’t sleep well most nights, your thoughts eating away at your mind as you wonder if your abilities are the reason why you’ve always been alone… if they drove your family away before you could understand and just explain.

It stays silent while you tend to his wounds, applying bacta wherever your hands coax sharp hissing sounds from his helmet. His armor lies on the floor of the cockpit, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and the hem of his shirt lifted just enough to reveal a shallow cut and smattering of bruises on his abdomen. It’s not the worst you’ve seen and the bacta seems to already be easing most of the discomfort, allowing him to sit up straighter.

You leave him for a moment to allow him to tend to the bruises on his legs himself, walking to the supply closet to make sure the quarry is secure in his makeshift prison. When you return, you sit in the pilot’s seat, facing the zooming stars as if they hold the answers to every terrifying question you’ve held inside for so long.

You almost don’t hear the soft way the Mandalorian calls your name. It takes all your strength to pivot your seat in his direction.

“Do you remember when I told you about the mudhorn?” He asks.

You nod. The story of the mudhorn, of course you remember. After he’d first told you about his child, he seemed eager to tell you even more tales of their adventures across the galaxy. The mudhorn felt like their origin story, the birthplace of his connection to Grogu. 

“I didn’t tell you the whole story,” he says quietly, piquing your attention. “Grogu saved _me._ Not the other way around.”

You stare at him dumbfounded. “But how? He’s just a baby.”

Mando stands from the co-pilot’s seat, testing his leg’s stability before walking to the control board, leaning back on it, his knees brushing against yours.

“Grogu had powers too. He could heal people. And he could move things without touching them,” he mirrors your words, making your jaw drop as you take them in. “Just like you. I was quested to bring him to others of his kind.”

“You mean?” you ask, and he doesn’t miss the flash of hope in your eyes.

“Yes. There are others like him — like you.”

You listen with rapt attention as he unravels the legend of the Jedi — a fierce warrior he’d met named Ahsoka Tano and the hooded figure who had single-handedly defeated a platoon of Dark Troopers and became Grogu’s new mentor. He tells you the few fragments of what he knows about laser swords — _lightsabers_ — the bright colors he’s seen them radiate. But he leaves out the heavy weight of the darksaber locked away in his weapons cabinet. Besides that, he tells you everything he knows, which he regrets isn’t much.

“The Force?” You ask in confusion.

“The Force is what gives you your powers,” he says, reciting the words like folklore passed down through generations. “It is an energy field created by all living things. To wield it takes a great deal of training and discipline.”

Ahsoka’s words have been imprinted on his brain since she first spoke them.

“I can take you to a place where you can communicate with them,” he whispers. Truly, he doesn’t want to do as he says, doesn’t want to repeat the heartache he’s still not fully recovered from. He wishes he could snatch the righteous words out of the air before you hear them. But he knows what it would mean to you to find others, _a family_ when you’ve had none your whole life. “The… Jedi, I mean. On a planet called Tython. If you want to be trained.”

He imagines a familiar hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I… I’d like to hear what they have to say. Get some answers,” you say. “If you’ll take me.”

“Of course.”

You stand up, allowing him to take his place in the pilot’s chair.

“After we drop off the quarry, I’ll bring you to Tython.”

His breath stops when he sees your hand reach out to cradle the side of his helmet. His eyes screw shut, imagining the plush warmth of your palm caressing the skin on his cheek instead.

“Thank you, Mando,” you say, a gentle smile on your lips.

“Din,” he offers, grinning beneath his helmet when your chin tilts in silent questioning. “My name is Din Djarin,” he clarifies. “But you can still call me Mando if you want.”

You smile, so wide and so bright it could blind him.

“Thank you, Din,” you say, unexplored galaxies sparkling in your irises. For the first time, he lets himself daydream what it’d be like to discover each one of them with you, for as many years as you’ll give him. Even as he fears his time with you is ending. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

As you walk to your sleeping quarters, the soft sound of controls beeping and ticking in the ship, you don’t hear when he whispers:

_“Anything.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're planet-hopping! Also, one of my favorite things about this part is how Din buys you colored chalks. He's a sweetheart. What do you think will happen in Part 2?? Let me know!


	2. You Come Around And The Armor Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Din continue your travels across the galaxy. A trip to Tython reveals your path and a stay in Sorgan breaks down Din's barriers. But red-stained visions will lead you both on a dangerous journey you can only hope to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for ultimate softness :)

  


### v.

Tython is a mountainous terrain, a landscape of rocky slopes and bumpy hillsides. 

From the viewport of the cockpit, you see a small mountain with six protruding pillars arranged in a circle on top. That must be the place. 

The Mandalorian — _Din_ — makes a joke about traveling the last stretch with the windows down as he circles around it, chuckling to himself at some secret memory before landing the ship far from the ancient-looking pillars. 

When you exit the ship, he turns to you with his arms outstretched. And when he tells you to grab on, you back away immediately, finally understanding his joke. 

“We can definitely walk,” you argue, shaking your head and strutting past him.

“That’ll take too long,” he sighs, gently taking hold of your wrist until you stop in your tracks. “It would be dark by the time we got there.”

“I don’t give two bantha ticks. There’s no way in Malachor that I’m letting you dangle me through the air like a kriffing womp rat.”

“You say the strangest things when you’re angry,” Din chuckles.

“Don’t you have another jetpack?” You demand, ignoring his comment.

“Even if I did, you haven’t been trained in the Rising Phoenix.”

“The _what?”_

“Just hold on,” he mutters and you imagine his eyes rolling, a grin on his lips. He pulls your hands toward him, wrapping them around his neck. One of his arms rests on your lower back and the other scoops you up behind your knees, cradling you against his chest. Flames burst from his jetpack, launching the pair of you off the ground ungracefully as he adjusts to carrying another person. Your grip tightens around him for dear life and he can’t fight the smile on his lips when he feels you bury your face into his neck as he flies high above the mountains toward the pillars.

“We are never doing that again,” you say once your feet finally touch the ground.

“Come on. It’s not that bad,” he says, holding your shoulders as you regain your balance. “The kid loved it.”

You scoff, taking in the scene around you. The pillars look much taller up close, towering above you from all sides and pointing to the middle of the round platform where a smooth mound lies dead center. It’s covered in dirt save for the few shrubs that managed to blossom from the dry ground.

“It’s a rock,” you say, unimpressed as you circle the half sphere.

“Seeing Stone,” he corrects.

“Fine. It’s a stone and I’m seeing it,” you say, turning your gaze on him with your hands on your hips.

It's strangely fitting to look at him and see yourself reflected in the beskar, warped and wavy from the curves of his armor. His hands fall to his hips, mirroring your posture.

“So, what happens next?”

“I don’t know… exactly,” he admits with a long sigh. “There aren’t any controls. I just sat Grogu on the stone and something… happened. Ahsoka said if he reached out through the Force, someone might hear him. So, sit and reach,” he commands, gently nudging you toward the stone.

“Nonsense Jedi bantha crap,” you grumble under your breath, ripping another short chuckle from his chest. You smile, sitting cross-legged on the stone.

“Focus,” he says, hands on either of your shoulders before he backs away, remembering how last time, the energy field had knocked him back more times than he’d care to admit.

You close your eyes, concentrating on something you don’t quite understand. Your eyes screw shut tightly, wrinkling the skin between your brows, and you frown.

“Nothing happened.”

A leather-clad thumb trails a gentle line down the furrow between your brows, smoothing the wrinkles by your eyes with a gentleness that tugs your heart so fiercely, you almost fall off the stone.

“It will,” he says softly — confidently.

You open one eye to peek at him, watching as he steps away again and nods, fingers itching to pull his hands back to your face. A blue butterfly appears in front of your nose out of nowhere, another landing on your knee. You watch as they flutter around you in silent encouragement, take a deep breath, and softly close your eyes once more. One clammy palm presses into the stone beneath and you refocus your thoughts, reaching out for one thing: Din.

Din Djarin, a kind, gracious man hidden beneath impenetrable armor. How can someone who never shows his face be the most beautiful person you’ve ever known? You’ve never seen his smile, but you hear it in the baritone of his laughter and teasing. You’ve never seen his eyes but can feel them — concerned, curious, observant, warm — underneath a tinted visor. He gives you pieces of himself in ways that can’t be seen, but in moments that spread heat to your cheeks and flutters to your belly. And he takes little pieces of your heart in exchange. After years of surviving on your own, you never imagined you could care so deeply for another person.

Suddenly, a beam of energy encircles you in blue transparent waves and Din takes a few extra steps back just in case, a triumphant smile on his face as he whispers under his breath, “Good girl.”

He paces back and forth as you sit atop the Seeing Stone for nearly an hour, your eyes gently twitching, fingers brushing together, locked in a deep trance.

 _“Then, Grogu may choose his path.”_ Ahsoka’s words echo in his memory.

He wonders what your path is, if it will continue to weave with his or if it leads you far away. He doesn’t let himself hope, doesn’t let himself imagine — knowing full well how it broke his heart the last time.

Finally, he feels the powerful energy wane, your body collapsing over the stone, and he bolts to your side.

“I’m fine,” you assure him with a hand on the side of his helmet. “Just took a lot out of me.”

He nods, keeping silent despite his eagerness to hear what you found.

“Din,” you whisper, his name sounding like the lullabies of his childhood on your smiling lips. “I heard him.”

Din imagines a hooded figure leading you by your hand, leaving him behind.

“I heard _Grogu_ ,” you clarify and Din’s helmet whips toward you so violently, the way it slices through the wind is practically audible.

“You heard… Grogu?” He stutters quietly.

“Yes!” You squeak excitedly, standing on your feet, your hands holding tight onto his arms for balance. “He had quite a lot to say,” you laugh, and Din lets out a half-sob, half-chuckle, remembering the time his boy babbled nonsense the entire way from Nevarro to Corvus.

“How is he?” Din whispers so quietly he’s not sure if he spoke at all.

“His master says he’s getting stronger each day.” You wish you could see the pride in Din’s eyes. You know it’s there. “And he misses you, a lot.”

Din holds his breath, visibly fighting back tears.

“But he said he’ll see you again soon, just like you promised.”

You leave out the answer you gave to an invitation to join his master. And you leave out Grogu’s parting request: _“Please take care of my father. He shouldn’t be alone.”_ But you tell Din everything else.

Tears drip down his cheeks and you see the wet drops slip out of his helmet and land on his cowl.

“Did you tell him that I—”

“Yes,” you say, a hand on the side of his helmet. “I told him.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his rapidly beating chest — similar to the way you’d done when he'd allowed you onto his ship.

“Thank you,” he says, helmet pressing against the top of your head, his gratitude rumbling through beskar into your skin.  
  


### vi.

He doesn’t ask you when you plan to leave him.

You don't give any inclination that you plan to stop traveling the galaxy at his side.

So, you find yourselves together on Sorgan, deciding to lay low for a while.

Sorgan is a swampy, humble planet. Nothing like Tatooine. To you, that makes it all the more beautiful.

Din brings you to a small krill farming village, which only adds to the planet’s enchanting charm. Children run through the fields as their laughter wafts in the air, enveloping you in a soothing balm. Men and women kneel over rivers with woven baskets full of the bouncing blue krill, soft smiles etched into their faces as they work.

When the Mandalorian saunters through the village, the children come bounding up to him in hoards, eager grins and grabby fingers boxing him in until he can’t walk any further. You can’t help but laugh as he visibly sighs before kneeling to greet them, accepting a small pink flower from one of the little girls.

Before you had landed, he’d mentioned visiting this village once or twice before. But it’s clear that he hadn’t just passed through. He’d made an impression. You half expect to find a statue of him in the center of the village after seeing the way the children looked up at him with stars in their eyes.

When the children finally leave to play, you follow several steps behind Din, watching his interactions with curious eyes. A beautiful woman with long, raven hair stops him with a gentle smile, her eyes softening with vast yet familiar constellations reflecting in her irises. It seems like there’s a history between Din and the raven-haired woman — something he’d failed to mention, but you try not to dwell on the uncomfortable way the idea squeezes at your heart.

Whatever Din says to the woman is too quiet to hear from this distance, so you settle for reading his body language. Although he speaks to you far more often now, you find you can understand him even without words.

The woman tilts her chin, a soft smile unwavering on her lips until Din shakes his head, the setting sun reflecting off his helmet as it moves right and left. His shoulders slump and the woman’s smile slips off her face as she reaches a sun-kissed hand toward his elbow and squeezes gently. The woman says something, confidence in her eyes, and Din nods.

Finally, Din glances in your direction and you gravitate toward him without instruction.

“This is Omera,” Din tells you.

The woman — _Omera_ — smiles once again. “Hello. We’re happy to have you both as our guests. I’ll prepare your lodging,” she says, turning on her heel to leave the two of you alone.

“Thank you,” Din says. 

When Omera is out of earshot, you can’t keep the tinge of jealousy out of your voice when you say, “She seems nice.”

“She and this village were very kind to us when Grogu and I came here before. We can trust her.”

You nod, more curious to know what he’d just said to the woman.

“Did you tell her about Grogu?” You ask, wondering if you made accurate observations.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

You see his shoulders slump again. Reliving the goodbye is never easy for him.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he says, changing the subject and wordlessly handing you the pink flower one of the children had given him earlier. When you don't take it immediately, he decides to tuck it behind your ear as you do with your pencil, sending a wave of heat down your neck. (Later, when you’re alone, you press the flower between the pages of your drawing pad for safekeeping.) 

“Looks like they’re pitching a fire. Hope you like krill.”

Dinner moves at a slow, peaceful pace, accompanied by friendly voices of storytelling strangers. They regale you with the fantastical tale of the legendary Mandalorian and the fearless former Rebel shock trooper who saved them from a band of pirates and a destructive Walker that stood tall above the trees — the two heroes who not only restored harmony but showed this village how to be brave and how to fight for themselves. You feel at ease sipping on spotchka, listening to stories honoring your friends.

But as the thought passes through your mind, ‘friend’ suddenly becomes the strangest word. It fits Cara Dune, the courageous marshal who you’d met several times on Nevarro, the woman you’d shared drinks and laughs with at cantinas, the warrior you’d trust with your life and Din’s life. But Din, your ‘friend’? The word seems to fall short.

After dinner, the villagers retire to their beds one after the other — leaving you and Din at the fire.

Din looks around at all the families, watching as one father carries his son on his back and a mother cradles a swaddled infant in her arms. He sees Omera and her daughter, Winta, in the distance — their hands joined and swinging between them as the little girl skips toward their humble home.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, the leather gloves silently screeching as the material sticks and peels away from itself again and again. His brows pinch together as he stares down at empty hands — empty hands that had foolishly allowed themselves to get used to holding someone else.

An image pierces his memory: three tiny green claws wrapped around his yellow-tipped thumb.

He blinks, blurry vision refocusing on his hands. Empty. 

You watch him intently, feeling sadness roll off of him in waves, drawing you in until you’re submerged just as deep, crestfallen on his ocean floor.

When the heart breaks, no amount of bacta can heal it. You can’t cauterize the lacerations carved inside of him or stitch the pieces together. But you can let your scarred heart bleed and beat next to his, until the heavy _thud, thud, thud, thud_ evolves into the resilient rhythm of a somber symphony only the two of you know.

He exhales. It’s a weary, crackling sound behind his helmet.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I made the right choice,” he admits quietly like he’s ashamed.

“For him? For Grogu?” You ask.

He nods, the motion almost imperceptible if not for the glint of firelight that flashes off beskar.

“I know you did. Grogu is doing well. He told me himself,” you whisper, opening his clenched fist and molding your fingers between his. “You’re a good man.”

For a moment, the moons and stars disappear at the same time, enveloping you both in inky darkness save for the angry red flames that reflect against his armor. He decides not to speak, not right away, allowing a shivering silence to shroud him as he weighs his next words. The late evening decrescendos into a soft lull of the crackling fire, wind-bristled branches, and a familiar _thud, thud, thud, thud._

“Sometimes,” his modulated voice finally rumbles. The dark window of his visor anchors itself on the way your hand completely fills one of his. Then he looks away, beyond the trees, beyond you. “I wonder if that’s true.”

You try to piece the words together yourself, try to make sense of him — how he can’t see what you can see as clearly as the roaring fire.

“What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I was scared to take you to Tython,” he admits.

“Because of what happened with Grogu the last time? You defeated Gideon. The Dark Troopers are gone, nothing was going to happen—”

“Not because of that,” he interrupts, taking a breath. “Because I… don’t want you to leave. And I feel selfish because you should be able to go — to train.”

Your heart beats faster at his admission, your mind mulling over his words to make sure you heard them right. A shaking hand reaches for his helmet, pulling his visor to face you.

“Di— _Mando_ ,” you whisper, taking a quick glance at the empty village. “I already chose my path at the Seeing Stone. I’m not leaving,” you reveal to him for the first time. You do everything you can to make him believe your words, squeezing his hand tighter, attempting to send your feelings through your skin into him.

“It isn’t right. You should train. You’re so powerful,” he says, almost to himself.

“No, I’m staying with you. And I know it’s right,” you declare, staring into the T-shaped visor where his eyes are. “You said Grogu knew where he was meant to be when he was young. He trained even before he met you. Letting him continue was the right thing to do for _him._ You did the right thing _,”_ you argue. “But I didn’t go to some fancy Jedi temple. When I was a kid, all I wanted was... to not be alone anymore. And now, I’m not. This is where I’m meant to be.”

You watch as flames dance across his helmet, his body still as he stays silent. Then, suddenly, your body feels warmer than the crackling fire, encircled in his tight embrace. You stay wrapped together like that for several minutes, limbs wound around each other like vines. You almost fall asleep on his shoulder from the peaceful sound of his breath so close to your ear.

“Come on,” he says, the crown of his helmet now resting against your forehead. He gently detaches you from his body as he stands, extending his hand for you to take once again. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

With your hands joined, gently swinging between your bodies, the two of you walk side by side to your shared lodging.

The hut is small and quaint, sparse in decoration but plentiful in necessity. A bed for two sits nestled in the corner of the single room, the soft orange glow of a lamplight casting hazy, billowing shadows against the wall. Din stands on the threshold, shifting his weight between his feet as you explore the room, your fingers gliding across the soft fabric on the bed.

“All clear, Mando. The bed doesn’t bite,” you tease him, his head shaking — probably rolling his eyes — as he closes the door behind him.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, removing his cape and laying it on the ground.

“That’s ridiculous,” you argue, rolling your eyes this time. “We came to Sorgan to relax. You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“I’ve done worse,” he shrugs. You don’t doubt it.

“I don’t care. There’s plenty of space for both of us. If you don’t sleep on the bed, neither will I,” you resolve, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Who’s being ridiculous now?” He says, a hand on his hip as he stares you down. When you don’t relent, he sighs. “Fine.”

You practically bounce with delight, removing your socks and dusting off your clothes before diving under the plush covers. A breathy moan escapes your lips as your body sinks into the mattress and it freezes him in place on the other side of the room.

“Oh, stars. This is heaven,” you hum.

Din approaches the bed like it’s a rancor crouching in wait to devour him whole. His knee hardly touches the top of the mattress before you’re sitting up with another accusatory glare.

“You’re going to sleep in your _armor?”_ You question incredulously.

He doesn’t want to argue in circles with you again, worried the other villagers may be able to hear, so he sits on the edge of the bed and removes each plate of beskar one by one, save for his helmet. He’s left in a long-sleeved top, dark pants, and woolen socks — his hands the only skin on display after removing his gloves.

He turns on the mattress, his feet resting beside yours as he lays his helmet down on a squishy pillow, facing your curious gaze once more.

“When was the last time someone saw your face?” You whisper.

“Not long ago,” he answers truthfully. “The child.”

“And your Creed?”

“He meant more.”

You nod, understanding full well that the love for another being can easily outweigh any rule or law or virtue or doctrine or belief or obligation.

You tuck your hand beneath your pillow, squinting your eyes as if trying to see through the panes of his helmet. You wonder, not for the first time, what he looks like when he rolls his eyes or laughs or smirks. You wonder if his eyes soften when he looks at you the way you know your eyes do whenever he’s near... if a dimple appears in his cheek just for you. Your knees bend slightly, touching his legs. 

“What happens if you take off your helmet?”

He doesn’t respond right away, as if looking for the correct answer.

“I used to think I could never put it back on,” he says, pain in his voice as the word ‘traitor’ echoes in his mind. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

You hum in acknowledgment, submerging the room into a long gap of silence, your eyes flitting across his covered face, your own features reflected in the silver steel. He watches as you close your eyes and wonders for a moment if you’ve decided to finally sleep. But then, your hand reaches in the direction of the open flame across the room, and with a flick of your wrist, the lamplight extinguishes, enveloping the room in complete darkness.

“You’re good at that,” he comments, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“It comes in handy,” you say, the fabric beneath your shoulder rustling as you shrug.

The room is quiet again, the steady sound of soft breathing filling the small space between your bodies.

“Din?” You whisper.

His eyes close at the sound of his name spoken so delicately by your lips. “Hmm.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he answers, not missing a beat.

“I won’t look, I promise. I can’t even see. I just,” you pant as if speaking alone has made you breathless. “I can’t imagine sleeping with a helmet on is all that comfortable. You can take it off. You can trust me.”

Your hand trembles as it blindly reaches for the side of his helmet but his hand immediately traps you there against the beskar. You fear you’ve taken it too far when he pushes your hand back toward your side of the bed.

But then you hear it, the sound of air releasing, a puff of unrestrained breath, metal gently hitting the floor. And then his hand is holding yours again and placing it on his cheek, touching his skin for the first time. His eyelashes flutter against the side of your fingers, closing shut as your other hand tentatively explores the rest of his face.

He’s warm. Soft and rough at the same time. His entire weight leans into your palm and you think, this must be what it feels like to hold the entire universe.

“I never thought—” he suddenly whispers, a jagged inhale, a shaky exhale, his breath touching your lips. “After I lost the kid,” he continues, his thumb caressing your hand on his cheek. “I never thought I’d feel this again.”

You wonder what he means by ‘this.’ Touch? Tenderness? Warmth? Care? Or something much, much deeper?

You desperately wish you could see how he looks in this moment, feeling another person’s skin against his own after depriving himself for so long. Your fingers run across wrinkles and scars and you wonder, not for the first time, how long he’s had to carry these marks and stories all on his own. Your thumb finds the bridge of his nose, trailing down the strong curve until below it, a dense smattering of hair scratches at your skin.

“A mustache?” You ask, amused.

You hear his smile widen when he chuckles. “My father had one.”

It makes your heart ache, remembering the story he told you about his home planet, how his parents had sacrificed their lives to keep him safe. How the siege built his distrust of droids and redirected his faith to the Mandalorians who lifted him out of devastating danger. As you trace his mustache with reverence, you wonder what parts of his mother he wears like armor.

Below that, your thumb drags along the plush outline of his lower lip, from one corner to the other. You swear they’re lifted — at least just slightly. As you move your fingers across his cheeks, you find the shallow dip of a dimple and you smile so big he must be able to see it. His jaw is sharp and prickly, freshly shaved probably the day before. 

As he leans heavily into your hand, you think to yourself how much you want to help carry this weight for him.

“Can you say something?” You ask quietly, your hands still touching his skin, careful not to disturb the bubble you’re in.

“What do you want me to say?” He whispers.

“Hmm,” you respond, enjoying the feeling of his voice rumbling through your hand. “Anything. I just like the way you sound.”

For a second, you think you feel his lips press against your palm.

“ _Cuyan_ ,” he says, the foreign word tickling your skin.

“What language is that?”

“It’s the tongue of my people: Mando’a,” he explains, his cheek stretching upward under your hand. “It’s not spoken much anymore.”

“It sounds beautiful. What does _‘cuyan’_ mean?”

His hand falls into your hair, brushing the strands with his fingers. “It means survivor.”

“Like you,” you smile.

“And you.” 

You smile wider.

“Stars, please keep talking,” you plead, despite the peaceful yawn slipping from your lips. Your hand on his face wraps around his back instead, holding him like a pillow. Nestling your head over his heart, you feel the strong _thud, thud, thud, thud_ against your ear — your own heartbeat starting to synchronize with his. His hand continues combing through your hair, his chest rumbling with a gentle chuckle.

“ _Kotep_ means brave,” he whispers, his voice weaving through the hairs at the crown of your head. “I remember the time I introduced you to Cara Dune. We were in a rush but she was taking her time pummeling someone into the dirt. And you rolled your eyes, took the blaster from her belt, set it to stun, and shot him. Then, you smiled, shook Cara’s hand, and said ‘Nice to meet you.’”

“ _Kotep_ ,” you mumble, half-awake. “Maybe more stupid than _kotep_.”

“Sometimes, they’re one and the same,” he chuckles, making your entangled bodies shake. “ _Mirdala_ means clever. Like when you snuck onto my ship and convinced me to let you join my crew even though I wasn't looking for one. Or when you rewired the jammers so that our ship could scramble Imperial and New Republic codes.”

“ _Kotyc_ means strong. When you saved me from that rancor, I was terrified,” he whispers. He tilts his head down, his lips pressing against your hair as he listens to your slow breathing. You’re fast asleep, arms still wound loosely around him, cheek pressed against his chest. But he keeps talking. “Not of the rancor or even of you. You’re so strong, so powerful, just like the kid. I was terrified I’d have to let you go too. Then, you said you want to stay. And I felt so guilty because I was so relieved. But I want you to stay too, truly, for as long as you want, _ner kar’ta_. _Ner kar’ta_ means my heart.”

He places a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“Before I met the kid... before I met _you, ner kar’ta…_ I never thought I’d get to have this, whatever this is,” he whispers into your skin. “That was a past life. This is heaven.”

### vii.

The few nights you stay in Sorgan give you ample time to study his features in the dark, etching them into your mind the way you would on paper.

Every night after the first, he whispers words like _cuyan, kotep, mirdala,_ and _kotyc_ as you fall asleep — some you remember and some you don’t.

When you leave Sorgan, you notice he wears his helmet less. Not outside of the safety of darkness and certainly not outside of the ship. But in quiet, shadowy moments and dim corners of your metal home — he feels comfortable enough to be without it.

He’s giving you a portion of what he knows he can’t fully give to you... not yet. But it’s like he’s inviting you, waiting for your hand to find its place on his cheek once again.

When you retire to your quarters each night, he powers off the lights and whispers, “Good night, _ner kar’ta_ ,” faint enough to make you wonder if he means for you to hear it. _Ner kar’ta._ It’s a beautiful phrase, one from his people’s language. He’d shared it with you that first night he let you know him, feel his skin with its scars and soft expanses. But for the life of you, you can’t remember if he taught you what _ner kar’ta_ means _._ (You curse that comfortable bed and his warm arms for tempting you to sleep so easily.) The way he says _ner kar’ta_ each time is like a sanctified prayer and you desperately want to know what Divinity has that he wants. 

Sleep had never come easy to you before. Not in your years of lonely nights surrounded by danger on Tatooine. Before you met Din, nightmares had been enemies you kept close like friends. Not by your own will, of course.

But nightmares quickly became scarce foes. Living with Din made you feel safe. He’s a protector, but more than that — he shows you the strength you have inside you like a mirror, his bravery reflected in your eyes. _Kotep means brave._ You remember that.

But as you feel yourself growing more connected to your powers, the Force, your dreams seem more vivid, more rooted in reality, peculiar prophecies. And nightmares feel like omens.

You have a recurring horror story that plays in your mind in fragmented flashes, pieces you’re too scared to dwell on in the clear light of day for fear they may form a mosaic of your own image, cast away in the vast expanse of space. Alone. Again. 

Tonight, the nightmare visits you and bathes your thoughts in red. You don't recognize the dreamscape from your travels with your Mandalorian, you only see the way it paints everything in a bloody tint and sets your skin on fire. Then, you see Din — _hear_ him yell in agony under the attack of an invisible enemy. But you’re rooted to the ground, your limbs morphing into distorted vines and branches, dry screams ripping through your throat until you can’t make a sound.

“Din!” You gasp, waking up in a cold sweat in your darkened quarters, the desperate sound of your voice echoing through the ship.

“What’s wrong?” Din sprints in, panting as he skids to a stop. He turns on the lights to reveal himself in only his underclothes and helmet, head snapping back and forth as he examines the scene. When nothing seems out of place, his shoulders relax. “Are you okay?”

Your chest heaves as you attempt to steady your breath, not realizing tears are rolling down your face until he comes forward to wipe one from your cheek.

“It was just a dream,” you say, not fully believing your words. “But it felt so real.”

The edge of your thin mattress sinks at the same time you feel his bare hand brush a sweat-slicked strand of hair out of your face. His fingers comb through your hair and settle at the base of your head before he pulls your face into his soft chest. The steady beating of his heart under your cheek immediately helps yours slow down.

“I’m here. You’re safe,” he says, and all you can do is fist your hand in his shirt and hold onto him, anchor yourself in his solid body because it’s not you that you worry about. Not this time. But you don't tell him about the nightmare or the fragments that have been haunting you the past few days. You just listen to the way he breathes in through his nose and sighs through his lips.

“Scoot over,” he whispers, untangling himself from your arms. You sniffle and do as he asks, giving him room to settle under your covers and wrap his arm around your back so you can use his chest as a pillow. “Do you mind getting the lights?”

You chuckle, closing your eyes and levitating the pencil on your drawing pad until it hits the controls for the lights and blankets the room in darkness. Almost immediately, you hear the hiss of Din’s helmet and the light thud of it hitting the floor before you feel his soft hair touching the top of your head.

He holds you, his thumb stroking the skin on your arm, his breaths coming out as warm puffs against your hair. And like those nights in Sorgan, you let your fingers draw smooth shapes into his skin and rest over his heart.

“Do you want to hear about the time I took Grogu to school?” He asks quietly, indulging you with the deep rumble of his rich voice.

You tilt your face upward and try to see his smile in the pitch black, nodding your head so his shirt beneath your cheek rubs against his chest. You want to hear every story about his past as long as he says it with his voice and his hands on your skin.

“I was on Nevarro, just passing through for repairs. And of course, I ended up on a mission at an Imperial base,” he chuckles, sending vibrations through you.

“Of course,” you laugh with him.

“I couldn’t take the kid with me. Karga and Dune brought me to a school, so I left him there for a while.” Your hand raises to his cheek so you can feel that pull of his smile under your fingers. “Mid-mission, I have to bolt from the base, grab my ship, and pick up the kid on the way. I’m in a rush and the educator droid tries to keep me, saying my son stole some poor boy’s snacks. I don’t have any time for the droid to explain more and just mumble sorry and grab the kid. He’s got little blue crumbs all over his cloak and a silver packet of cookies. He ate so much he got sick on the ship when I flew back to help the others near the base.”

You feel Din shake his head, laughing at the memory.

“I had to let him wear one of my tunics while I washed up his clothes. I even tried sewing up the bottom so it would protect his feet better,” he snickers. “Not the best stitching job I’ve done.”

You don't think your heart has ever felt so full and large and ready to burst. You love listening to him talk about Grogu, the fondness in his voice tugging you impossibly closer to him until the two of you blend into one.

“He whined for hours when he finished those cookies.” He muses, lifting one of your hands and drawing lines on your palm with the tip of his finger. “Such a little womp rat.”

“Wonder where he got it from,” you tease, your voice still scratchy from tears but laughing in genuine amusement.

He scoffs, the mirth never leaving his honeyed voice. “ _I_ only ever taught him strength, honor, and loyalty.”

“Oh, I’m sure. _This is the Way,”_ you say, attempting to imitate his deep baritone.

“You really like to give me a hard time, don’t you?” He teases.

“Ah,” you grin. “The Jawa calls the Ewok short.”

He stills before bursting into a full-bodied laugh. “I’ve never heard that one before,” he gasps between wheezes.

You laugh with him, your shaking bodies gradually calming into a slow vibration of charged energy. You can’t see it but you feel his eyes looking into yours when his breaths settle down, his thumb now tracing over the slope of your lip.

“Sleep, _ner kar’ta_ ,” he says, stroking his fingers over your hair once more. And you desperately want to ask what it means, why he calls you this beautiful phrase. But soon enough, your eyes are closed and he kisses your head before letting sleep take him as well.

When he wakes in the early hours of the morning, your quarters still mostly covered in the ship’s shadows, he gently slides himself out of your hold and tucks you deeper under the covers, before putting his helmet back on and walking to the fresher.

On his way out of your room, he notices a sliver of light peeking through the doorway and a splash of pink catches his eyes. He looks down to find your open drawing pad sitting on your dresser, the pink flower he gave you on Sorgan pressed and dried onto one page.

And on the page beside it is a rough charcoal portrait of a man that looks vaguely like him. The sketched face shares the hooked curve of his nose, a mustache below it covering his lips, and wavy locks atop his head. But the other features are empty, blanks waiting patiently to be filled in once you fully grasp the picture.

Beside the off-white space where his eyes should be, he sees a note in your scribbled handwriting that reads: 

_Eye color?_

He takes the pencil lying between the stitched binding of the booklet and gives you another piece of himself, writing below your question:

_Brown._

### viii.

When you wake, you half expect to find your cheek still pressed to a warm, beating chest, strong arms wrapped around your body, perhaps even a charming snore blowing the hair at the top of your head. Instead, when you open your eyes, the space beside you is cold and empty, and you wonder if it had all been a fantasy you’d conjured to erase the nightmare that had plagued you moments before.

But when you slip out of bed and pad over to your door, you spot your drawing pad which you’d left open. And below the question you’d scrawled across the page, you find his answer and can finally put a color to his eyes — a rich, warm, melting hue that fits his gaze so perfectly you think there _must_ be a Maker putting these pieces into motion.

You grab the pencil from the booklet, place it behind your ear, and go to find him.

Leaving your quarters, the ship feels unusually frigid and you hold your arms tightly to retain the residual warmth from the bed covers.

When you walk into the cockpit, you half expect to find Din in his plainclothes again, giving you a chance to wrap your arms around his waist and whisper “good morning” into the soft planes of his chest without his beskar blocking the way. Instead, you find him fully-armored, crouched over with his elbows on his knees, helmet hung low and held between gloved hands. In front of him, a holoprojector loops a message from a pale, uniformed woman.

 _“Din Djarin,”_ the grave voice addresses him by his full name, sending shivers down your spine. _“Yes, I know exactly who you are. If you don’t want the entire galaxy to put a name to your face, you will help me devise a plan to release Moff Gideon from the New Republic detainment facility. We will send you coordinates to an Imperial base shortly.”_

The blue projection vanishes briefly before starting again in a haunting cycle.

“Din,” you whisper, startling him out of his stupor, his helmet whipping around as if ready to take aim and fire. You walk toward him slowly, kneel in front of him with a gentle hand on his knee, and face the holoprojector. “Who is that? How do they know your name?”

He sighs, his helmet falling into his hands once more.

“When Gideon took the kid, I had to make a choice,” he says, voice rough and ragged despite the hours of restful sleep he got the night before. “I snuck into an Imperial rhydonium refinery on Morak to get Gideon’s coordinates from a data terminal. But the terminal required a facial scan.”

“They have your face in Imperial data archives,” you gasp, the understanding poisoning your veins and causing your heart to drop into your stomach.

“They have _everything_ in the archives,” he corrects, his modulated voice distant and detached. “And they’re about to take it all away.”

“No,” you whisper. Standing up suddenly, anger washes over you at his quick defeat. “No! I won’t let them. There must be something we can do.”

“I won’t free Gideon,” Din says, stern and almost frightening in his resolve.

“I’m not saying we break him out,” you respond, hands up in defense. “But there’s always more than one way to skin a womp rat.”

Your heavy footsteps echo in the small space of the cockpit as you pace back and forth. Din’s helmet follows you slowly as you walk in circles and he sees the gears turning in your mind. You pull the pencil behind your ear towards your lips and gnaw at it with your teeth, an action he quickly learned meant not to talk to you lest your brewing idea slips from your skull. The holoprojector repeats its threat over and over, the voice grating against the metal walls until it begins to sound like an endless shriek. And with a roar of frustration, your clenched fist comes flying down onto the holoprojector until the image fizzles away.

“I’ve got it.”

The plan goes as follows: Send the Mandalorian to the Imperial base under the guise of full cooperation and stall the holoprojector Imp for as long as possible. This will give you enough time to sneak in through an air vent _(“Or… something.” “Or something?” “Yes,_ Mando. _Whatever’s convenient at that moment!”)_ , find a terminal, and hack the system, wiping every Imperial archive of Din Djarin.

“That’s a horrible plan,” he says.

“It’s not _‘horrible,’”_ you argue.

“It’s dangerous.”

“You got something better?” You challenge.

His long sigh is enough of an answer.

“So, we’re doing it then,” you say, suddenly a million times more nervous than when you’d laid out your blueprint for him. “Punch in those coordinates. Let’s go pay a visit to some Imps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know the Seeing Stone is more of a beacon but let's just say you can talk to other force-sensitives if you meditate deep enough.) It's time for the action! What do you think will happen next? Oh btw, zoom into the moodboard to see the sketch of Din. I might upload the full size on Tumblr! 
> 
> Mando’a Glossary:  
> Cuyan = survivor [koo-YAHN]  
> Kotep = brave [KOH-tehp]  
> Mirdala = clever [MEER-dah-lah]  
> Kotyc = strong [koh-TEESH]  
> Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair])
> 
> Star Wars slang:  
> The Jawa calls the Ewok short = When somebody comments on or accuses someone else of a fault which the accuser shares.


	3. You Mean More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan goes as follows: Send the Mandalorian to the Imperial base under the guise of full cooperation and stall the holoprojector Imp for as long as possible. This will give you enough time to sneak in through an air vent, find a terminal, and hack the system, wiping every Imperial archive of Din Djarin's face. It should work, right? As long as no one gets hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's non-graphic/non-explicit (in my opinion) smut in this chapter.

  
  
  


### xi.

As Din flies to the Imperial base, the only sounds filling the cockpit are the low beeps of the control board and the tense quiet of your voice repeating the plan for the twenty-third time. When you finally land on an icy planet, you see the base outside the viewport blending in with its snowy surroundings — white, cold, frozen in time — and two stormtroopers flanking either side of the sealed entrance.

“Check your comlink,” Din says, voice gentle and authoritative. 

“Testing, testing. _Cuyan_ to Shiny Head, do you copy?” You whisper-shout into the device, watching as his gloved hand reaches for the side of his helmet, listening to your words spoken directly into his ear. He nods.

“You’re _not_ calling me ‘Shiny Head’ by the way.”

You want to laugh. Normally, you would. But anxiety drops low in your stomach again as you peer out to the base. 

“This is going to work,” you whisper and he wonders whether you’re saying that for his sake or to convince yourself.

“Don’t leave the ship until I give you the signal,” he says, his hands grasping both of your shoulders, thumbs brushing your upper arms in gentle circles. You only nod in response, your eyes boring into the visor of his helmet, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. When he pulls you against his chest and tightens his grip, your body sinks into his, trying to memorize how you fit together in case it’s all you have left. Too soon, he’s letting go, leaving only the crown of his helmet connected to your forehead when he echoes your words, “This is going to work.”

The moment he exits the ship, you sprint to the engine bay and pull the ship’s electro-periscope from the ceiling. Through the red-tinted binoc lens, you have a magnified view of the Mandalorian as he saunters up to the base’s entrance, not even flinching as the stormtroopers draw their blasters.

You watch his helmet turn wide to the left and swing slowly to the right, scanning the base as the troopers check his person and confiscate his blaster. The stormtroopers step back to their posts, leaving Din standing in the middle of the snow outside of a round, closed door. Waiting.

“ _Cuyan_ Two to _Cuyan_ One,” you mutter into the comlink. “What are you seeing?”

You’re met with a long gap of static and you panic, thinking the coms are jammed, before he finally answers.

 _“You were right,_ Cuyan _One,”_ he whispers, the hint of a smile in his voice despite the circumstances. _“There’s a small duct to the left of the entrance. You’ll have to distract the guard troopers.”_

“I can manage.”

 _“I know you can,”_ he says, steadfast as ever. Din believes in you without an ounce of hesitation and it makes you feel like you could command stars into existence and the galaxy would obey. _“After I give the signal, go to my weapons locker. There’s a locked box at the bottom. Punch in my code and take the bag inside it with you."_

“What’s in it?” You ask, watching as the doors to the base finally open, revealing another pair of stormtroopers, one with red markings on their armor. A Burner, more infamously known as an Incinerator Trooper.

 _“Things to keep you safe,”_ he answers quickly.

One of the guards gives Din’s blaster to the troopers now leading him into the base. And before the doors close, you see Din’s fingers interlock behind his back: the signal.

Focusing the periscope on the two guard troopers, you scan the area again, looking for a way to distract them without causing a scene. Aside from a patch of bushes to the right of the base, the area is blanketed in pure white snow with nothing to give you cover. Great.

As you think over your next move, you run to Din’s weapons cabinet and rummage through his arsenal, finding the locked box under an old cloak. You punch his code into the number pad — **47648** , ‘GROGU’ on a 10-key pad you remember with a bittersweet smile — and the box opens with a quiet click. As promised, there’s a small tan-colored pouch with a shoulder strap and, inside it, you find a blaster that fits perfectly in your hand and what looks like a silver sword hilt, its blade completely missing. You run your fingers across the angular handle, confused as to how a bladeless weapon could “keep you safe.” But when your finger presses over a smooth panel on the hilt, a high-pitched sound emits from its chamber and a black blade glows in front of your face. 

_A lightsaber,_ you think, like the ones Din had told you about what feels like a lifetime ago. But this one isn’t green like the one he’d described Grogu’s master used or white like Ahsoka Tano’s twin sabers. It's dark and blinding, laced with an energy you’re far too frightened to wield. You retract the blade almost immediately, heart racing as you stuff both weapons into the worn bag and sling it over your shoulder.

Taking a long, steadying breath, you slowly step onto the boarding ramp — thanking the Maker Din had the sense to leave it down so it wouldn’t make a noise and blow your cover. He hadn’t parked the ship too far from the entrance and you can clearly see the duct he’d mentioned a few yards away. If you can just get the stormtroopers to turn in the other direction, you could sprint and be in the clear.

The plan is dumb, you know it. But it’s already the day of dumb plans and it’s all you have. Kneeling, you gather a mass of powdery snow in your gloved hands and press it together until it clumps into a dense ball. With your arms outstretched in front of you, you close your eyes and reach out with your mind, focusing your thoughts on the ball of snow in your palms.

The snow levitates high above you, high above even the Imperial base, and toward the trooper standing on the right side of the entry. You lower the ball just to his head-level and out of his eyesight, flick your wrist slowly to the right to gain some momentum, then snap it quickly to the left, smacking the stormtrooper hard against his helmet.

“What the hell?” You hear the stormtrooper shout, shuffling back on his feet.

“What happened?” The other asks.

“I just got hit with a snowball?” He answers with his own question, rubbing the side of his helmet.

You focus your thoughts again, this time, reaching out toward the bushes to the right of the base, causing the branches to wiggle and rustle. 

The two troopers snap their heads in the direction of the mysterious sound, walking slowly with their blasters aimed and ready. And when they reach the bushes, aimlessly kicking at the shrubs with their boots, you run for it.

Your lungs are on fire when you reach the duct, fingers trembling as you quietly jiggle off the vent’s cover to give yourself an opening. You crawl in the chamber and quickly replace the cover before the stormtroopers return to their posts.

Once you’re safe inside the duct, you turn Din’s line back on so you can hear his side of the mission.

“I’m in,” you whisper.

On his end, you hear him grunt quietly in acknowledgment before the line is filled with only the faint sound of marching boots. 

You have no idea where you’re going — probably the dumbest part of your entire plan — but you hope to stumble upon a terminal or control room sooner rather than later so you and Din can leave this nightmare in the past.

The base’s air vent system proves to be an endless maze, however, with forks and crossroads at every turn. Your knees start to ache as they press and slide across the metal ducting, your hands leaving trails of water as the thin layer of ice on your gloves melts away. You freeze when you hear footsteps below the air duct, holding your breath as you peer through the slits of a vent to see a platoon of stormtroopers marching through the corridor.

After what feels like hours, you finally find a small, surprisingly empty room filled with computer terminals and open a vent panel before quietly dropping down from the ceiling.

By no means would you call yourself a hacking wizard, but you had some tricks up your sleeve. Years of scraping by on your own will teach you a host of odd skills. Within seconds, you bypass the facial scanners and begin combing through the archives before you hear some static crackle in your earpiece once again.

 _“Please, no need for formalities,"_ you hear a faint voice taunt through Din’s com. _“We already know what you look like.”_

It’s the holoprojector Imp, the familiar sound of her throaty voice floods your ears. Din doesn’t respond, and you imagine him standing like a statue, calculating the odds and armed with nothing but beskar and silence.

 _“Very well,”_ the Imp says. _“Leave the helmet on. We have more important matters to discuss.”_

“I almost have it,” you whisper to Din, hoping your encouraging progress can serve as another weapon.

 _“Now, Din Djarin,”_ the Imp calls, his name dripping out of her mouth like venom. _“Don’t think we’d be so foolish to believe you’d assist us willingly. Assume that we know everything.”_

A shiver runs down your spine from the thinly concealed threat, and your fingers fly faster over the controls as time slips through the cracks. 

Finally, you find it, a record labeled: ‘Din Djarin.’ And you erase every trace of him.

“Got it, _Cuyan_ One,” you sigh a breath of relief into the comlink.

 _“For example,”_ the Imp is still talking, and you roll your eyes knowing you’ve already won. _“We know you did not come here alone.”_

Suddenly, the blast doors of the terminal room open with a _whoosh_ , and you back up against the machines as two stormtroopers corner you in. With a blessed shred of forethought, you blindly pull one of the weapons out of Din’s bag behind your back and sneak it into the back waistband of your pants, covered by your thick cloak. Just as you thought, one stormtrooper tears the bag from your shoulder, looking inside to find the other weapon without searching you further.

They push you down the corridor, jabbing you in the middle of your back with the barrel of their blasters, and you count each step before stopping in front of a heavy-looking door on the shadowy end of the hall.

Din’s voice enters your ears at the same moment. 

_“If you even_ think _about hurting her, you’re already dead.”_

The door opens, revealing a dark room bathed in ominous red light. In the middle, the holoprojector Imp stands with her legs spread and her hands behind her back, flanked by two stormtroopers. Somehow, the Imp looks even paler without the blue tint of holo coloring her skin. It makes her eyes appear pitch black in comparison, piercing as they slant at you in unmasked scrutiny. She wears the same darkness in her hair which is cut blunt and short, severe against her skeletal pallor. In front of her, Din kneels on the ground, the Burner standing only a few steps behind him, flamethrower at the ready.

With your two captors holding you by the arms in a room filled with enemies, the odds feel slim to none. Din’s helmet turns to you, his beskar shrouded in red, and you do your best to send him a reassuring smile.

The Imp suddenly says your full name, a grin splitting her face in half when you turn to her in shock. “So nice of you to join us.”

“You already lost,” you spit at the Imp, grinning wider than her. “I erased the archives. You have nothing.”

“Oh, such a pretty, foolish girl,” the Imp sings and you hear the teasing, grating noise from both her true voice and its distortion through your comlink. With your arms trapped, you can’t even turn off the device, and you cringe each time the dissonance scratches its way into your ears. “You may have wiped the systems but I have a backup drive,” she smirks, patting the badge-decorated pocket on her uniform. “In fact, I’ve also collected some interesting records on you, my dear. About your family, your… history.”

She’s bluffing, she has to be.

“Assume that we know everything,” the Imp repeats. 

“Who _are_ you?” You grit through bared teeth.

She laughs and you wipe your ear on your shoulder in disgust.

“Surely you both understand if I choose to withhold certain information. One's identity can be so very…” the Imp pretends to consider her words, glancing at Din and then sneering back at you as she taps a gloved finger against her pale, pointed chin. “Valuable.”

You lunge at her, a snarl ripping from your throat, but a trooper holds you back with a painful grip, his blaster digging into your side.

“Now, Din Djarin,” the Imp says, turning her attention back to the kneeling warrior. “If you don’t want to watch me kill your partner, you’ll do as I wish. Help me retrieve Gideon. Otherwise, you both shall die here.” Her blaster clicks as she points the barrel between his eyes with horrifying gracefulness. 

“No!” You scream, turning every weapon in the room on you.

“Let her go,” Din practically growls.

“Ah,” the Imp says, walking to where you stand on the other side of the room, her weapon dangling like a child's toy from her fingers. “Or perhaps the girl can be of better help? With the proper motivation, of course. Tell me, where are they keeping the Moff? I wouldn’t want to be forced to make a roast out of your Mandalorian.”

With a snap of the Imp’s fingers, the Burner points his flamethrower at Din’s head. But somehow, in that same instant, you manage to rip yourself out of the troopers’ holds, making them stumble backward. And your hand flies forward, lifting the Imperial officer from the ground.

The troopers seem dumbfounded by the magic they’re witnessing, blasters pointed at the ground in their stupor. You can almost see their slack-jawed expressions through their helmets as the Imp clutches her hands around her throat, gasping for air and hovering a foot above the floor.

“A Jedi?” She croaks.

 _Assume that we know everything._ You knew it. A bluff.

“Wrong again,” you grin, pushing your hand forward and sending the Imp soaring across the room. Her head hits metal with a heavy crash, falling unconscious, and at the same time, a loud alarm sounds throughout the base. Somehow, the red of the room grows darker and more saturated as lights flash on the ceiling.

Blaster fire ricochets off the red-tinted walls when the troopers come back to reality, the blasts deafening as you dodge them, thankful it’s just a group of bad-shot stormtroopers and not an elite unit.

One stormtrooper charges toward you, raising the butt of his blaster to strike, but you kick him hard in the stomach, plowing him into the floor. In the corner of your eye, you see Din twist in a circle, his wrists still bound behind him as he sweeps his leg under the Burner, making the trooper fall backward with a thud.

You rush over to Din, pulling the saber from your waistband and igniting the blade to cut his binders off. You wordlessly hand him the sword but he pushes it back toward you.

“Use it,” he says, squeezing your wrist before turning back to knock the flamethrower out of the Burner’s grasp.

You’ve been in your fair share of scuffles back on Tatooine, even some while working with the Mandalorian — but you’ve never fought with a sword before. Clumsily, you swing the blade in front of you, brandishing it toward the troopers without skill.

“How do I _use_ this thing?” You shout at Din who is busy punching a stormtrooper and taking back his blaster.

“It’s a sword,” he yells over the alarm, shooting a third clueless trooper. “Stab something!”

With both hands gripping the hilt, you send the blade slicing through the air, a loud humming sound echoing in your ears with each swing. And when you hit the side of one final stormtrooper, the strike punctuated by a roaring crackle, he’s on the ground, his white armor sizzling as it melts.

But while the chaos in the red room settles, a larger battle brews outside its doors.

“I erased it, they have nothing,” you explain breathlessly, retracting the saber as Din surveys your body for injuries. You pull Din’s bag off the fallen trooper and replace the sword inside. “The Imp was bluffing.”

You run over to the unconscious woman regardless, checking her pockets. Empty.

“Are you sure?” He asks when you return to him, holding your trembling shoulders.

“Positive. It’s like I could sense it.”

A loud crash echoes in the corridors, making you jump away from him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Din says, at the same moment you scream, “Watch out!”

It happens in slow motion. The Incinerator Trooper pushes himself on his feet and reaches for his flamethrower. Din’s gaze is focused on you when you see the trooper take aim, a small fire beginning to bloom from the barrel.

Your arms wrap around Din instinctively, attempting to shield his body with your own. You wait for the burning heat, for the scorch of flames to lick at your skin. You wait to hear both your agonizing screams before you and Din leave the universe together. But as bright orange and red tendrils flash behind your closed eyelids, you only feel cool beskar.

Opening your eyes, you see a dome of fire just inches away from your bodies. Din pulls away slowly, taking in the sight of the inferno around him, dancing flames reflecting off his armor.

“Are you doing this?” He asks, a hazy memory creeping into his mind of the stand-off on Nevarro.

You squint through the fire, only finding the Burner with his thrower still aimed forward. You _are_ doing this. Closing your eyes again, you reach out and focus your thoughts harder on the protective shield blocking the flames. Your mind pushes forward and deflects the fire backward, hurling the blaze and embers into the trooper. When the flames dissipate, the Burner collapses to the ground, his suit scorched and blackened.

Standing in the middle of the destruction, you stare at your hands in shock before yellow-tipped gloves grab them and pull you out of the room. 

“We have to go,” Din says.

The halls flash with red lights, sirens soaring through the narrow corridors as trooper footsteps drum closer and closer.

Din leads you quickly through the base and out where he first entered. But you’re met by a rain of blaster fire as you both attempt to sprint back to the ship in one piece. Din pushes you in front of him, running backward as he shoots and blocks the blasters with the armor on his chest.

“Hang on,” he shouts, and before you can question it, he’s scooping you into his arms and launching off the ground.

He flies to the parked ship in record timing. But before he can make his landing, a blast hits his jetpack. It combusts with a deafening _boom_ , right next to your ear, and it sends both of you hurdling into the ice. For a moment, you can’t hear a thing except for the echo of the explosion as you fall to the pillowy snow. Then, beside you, you hear a dull crack of beskar on thick, hardened ice and Din groaning aloud in agony.

“No!” You shout, coming to your senses when you see his leg bent at a strange angle, blood seeping onto the ice from his helmet.

“Get us out of here,” he grits out.

It feels frighteningly familiar pulling his body into the ship, danger looming from all sides as blasts continue to ding off the freighter or melt into the snow. You close the ramp, leave Din in the hold, and get the ship high above the ground.

But you hesitate, hovering in the air for a long moment, before making a choice.

Charging the gunners, you aim at the Imperial base and release a shockwave of vengeful blasts. And as the facility and everything inside and around it disintegrates into ash and rubble, you launch into hyperspace, leaving nothing behind.

The next moments pass by in a blur, Din’s cries ringing loudly in your ears as you try to figure out what to do. He gives you strained instructions but you can barely understand him.

“Reset the bone,” he grunts with just enough clarity, all while writhing in pain.

“Reset the bone,” you echo. “Right. I can do this. I’ll need to cut your pants.”

You find a small blade, remove his boot and armor, and slice a line from the bottom of his pant leg to just above his knee. With one hand gripping below his knee and the other pressing down on his thigh, you pull and hear the bone snap back into place as Din screams. You run to the storage closet for the medpac and return with bacta gel in hand, smoothing it over the purple, splotchy skin around Din’s leg before delicately wrapping it with the cut fabric of his pants and a makeshift splint.

“Your head,” you remember, searching for the wound under his cowl, and he wheezes as if to confirm. “ _No_. No, no, no, no, no. Oh, _stars_ , Din. This is bad,” you sputter, your palm painted in his blood.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, breath slowing as he brushes his fingers through your hair. “You did so good back there, _cuyan_. My survivor.”

“Hey, don’t talk like that,” you cry, tears rolling in waves down your cheeks. “You’re _Cuyan_ One _,_ remember? You’re going to be alright. I’m gonna fix this.”

“You’re so brave, so clever, so strong,” he continues, coughing between words. “ _Kotep, mirdala, kotyc. Ner kar’ta_ ,” he croaks, voice fading out.

“Stay with me, Din!” You shout.

“I want to see your face,” he mumbles as if in a trance.

“I’m here, Din,” you tell him, taking his hand and placing it on your cheek. “I’m here.”

“No,” he coughs. “I want to see your face with my own eyes.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to retract his words. When he doesn’t, he pulls your joined hands to his helmet. You’re shaking when your other hand finds the opposite side of the beskar, releasing the lock and lifting it from his head.

His face is covered in blood and cuts, his brown eyes drooping with fatigue, dark hair plastered to his forehead. 

“Oh, Din,” you cry, unable to even process him without a helmet for the first time as you take in the damage. You can’t even see him behind the wounds that mar his features. But he sees you. His hand comes back to your cheek, thumb sliding back and forth in a half-moon shape.

“ _Mesh’la,_ ” he whispers. “Means beautiful. You are so beautiful, _ner kar’ta._ ”

You blink hard, heavy tears landing on his armor drop after drop even as he tries to brush them away. Your hand covers his own on your cheek, fiercely pressing his palm into your skin like you’re afraid he’ll let go. Kissing the exposed skin of his wrist, you taste a tragic mixture of blaster residue and wet salt on your lips.

“I can’t remember what _ner kar’ta_ means,” you sob. “Please tell me.”

One corner of his lips twitches upward, a strained, painful effort to smile, but he does everything in his power to let you see it.

“It means,” he gasps. “My heart.”

His hand falls from your cheek, limp in your lap and your body shakes at the loss of his touch. You can still hear his shallow breaths but you’re not sure how much longer he can go in this state. You close your eyes, holding his hand as your fingers brush over his glove. The inside of the ship is silent — peaceful and still as if unaware that your entire universe is crumbling in front of you. There’s not enough bacta in the galaxy to treat the trauma he’s sustaining in his head. You can hardly see his skin under the layers of blood and scrapes.

His warm, honeyed voice echoes in your mind, stories he’s told you over and over when you’d make any excuse to hear his voice, stories about him and Grogu. You think of his little green son, how you’re failing him right now. _Please take care of my father._

Din always sounded so wistful when he talked about Grogu, so in awe of his power.

_He could do things I couldn’t even imagine…_

_He saved me, in more ways than one…_

_Grogu is a special kid…_

_He could heal people._

“He could heal people!” You shout out loud, eyes bulging from their sockets.

In all your years of walking a tightrope when it came to your strange wizard-like powers, you’d never imagined you could heal. All those times you’d tried to fall asleep covered in bruises or cuts, you could have prevented so many nights of excruciating physical pain. But now is not the time to dwell on the past when your future is slipping through your fingers.

You close your eyes again — slowly resting one hand on Din’s cheek, the other still clutching his limp hand — and try to relax, reach out with your mind, reach inside, and focus your thoughts, emotions, energy, everything you have on the man in front of you.

It flows out of you in waves, sinking into him, and you feel it: your body growing more tired each second, only hoping your vitality is transferring into him. Just when you’re about to pass out, you hear him gasp for air, his body shooting up like a fish out of water.

“Din?” You blearily wonder. But his face blurs out of focus before you fall to the floor.

### x.

In the face of pain, the body has natural defenses to harden itself, like the calluses that develop on your fingertips and heels for armor. You can build a tolerance, a certain degree of numbness until pain regresses to a dull ache at the back of your mind. And sometimes, the skin gets so thick, the body so paralyzed, that you start to believe nothing could ever hurt you. Not coarse sand crystals or alleyway scum or sharp-clawed rancors or stormtrooper blasts.

But it’s funny how protection covering the outside does nothing to shield what lies underneath — merely a shattered fortress with cracks that let pain seep into the bloodstream and petrify the heart.

When Din’s hand had dropped limp in yours, you hadn’t felt the pain of his wounds or scars shrouding your body. Instead, you’d felt a unique kind of suffering, torture that hadn’t left your skin bruised but had rather sunken into your pores and gnawed at your insides: fear, loss, mourning.

The agonizing ache lingers in your muscles when you finally awaken.

The mattress beneath you envelopes your senses in a familiar fragrance of warmth and safety. Brightness filters in through the open door across the room and a sliver of light glares in one of your eyes, making you rub your fist against your eyelids to regain focus.

As your vision sharpens, you quickly realize you’re not in your own sleeping quarters.

These sheets are dark, the opposite of the crisp white color you’ve been used to for nearly a year. Knickknacks don’t litter the metal floors and socks aren’t piled up in the corner as you remember. The room is mostly bare, stripped down to the necessities, organized and empty to an almost alarming degree.

Then, a splash of color catches your eye on the durasteel wall near the door. It’s difficult to see with the glare spotlighting your face, leaving your surroundings in the shadows. Deciding to investigate, you wrap Din’s blanket tight around your shoulders, keeping his comforting scent around you like a cocoon. When your sock-covered feet finally carry you across his room to the wall in question, you gasp.

Tacked onto Din’s wall are at least a dozen small pages of parchment depicting lively landscapes of planets you’ve visited and picturesque portraits of creatures you’ve encountered together. Your drawings. You remember the times he’d come back from an easy mission, a charming swagger in his gait, and had asked to see what you’d drawn. He’d always held your booklet in his hands so delicately, taking the time he didn’t have to study and praise your work. When he’d hand it back, you’d tear the page from its binding and whisper, _“You can keep it.”_ You’d never thought much of it, except that you’d wanted to share the beauty you’d captured with him. After all, he’d given you all these beautiful colors to do so. But more than that, you’d wanted to let him see the galaxy through your eyes since his own stayed shadowed by his visor. Whenever he’d allowed himself to indulge in removing his helmet in private, you’d hoped he could see what you saw through the pages. You’d never once thought he’d keep your drawings so sacredly displayed in his quarters, assuming the doodles would eventually pile up in some forgotten corner on the ship. But he’d kept each one.

And right in the center, you see the first picture you’d ever drawn for him: a portrait of Grogu sketched according to Din’s affectionate descriptions. It’s slightly folded in on itself from the way he’d tucked it neatly into his shoulder pouch for safekeeping. When you’d drawn it for him, you’d just wanted to do him a simple kindness, the same way he’d been so kind to help you leave Tatooine behind and travel the galaxies with him. You’d only had your pencil at the time, none of Din’s thoughtfully gifted pigments at your disposal, leaving the portrait of the child monochromatic. But now, vibrant color adorns the sketch, bringing Grogu to life in beautiful tones of green, pink, and brown.

Din had borrowed your chalk pigments and colored it in himself. You imagine him with vivid hues dusting his fingertips and green smudges on his beskar, and you smile.

But when you pull back the folded edge of the paper, you’re surprised to see another figure has been drawn next to Grogu, an image you don’t recognize as work of your own. 

It’s… you.

Water blurs your vision but you quickly wipe the tears away so they don’t somehow fly onto the pages and ruin his picture. He’d colored you in your favorite garments, a familiar pink flower tucked behind your ear along with your pencil. Careful, reverent strokes define each of your features. You can’t help but think it looks like you and a stranger at the same time, and you wonder if this radiant image he’s drawn is truly who you are or just how he sees you. And what if those two ideas are one and the same?

You don’t notice Din leaning against the doorframe until you hear your name in a deep, dulcet tone. He whispers it, uninhibited by his helmet, and suddenly your name has a thousand more meanings than just some arbitrary label for the girl who used to be alone. When he says it, your name means survivor, brave, clever, strong, beautiful, his _entire_ heart — and all you want is to dive headfirst into the sweet nectar of his voice.

But then you remember what happened, how you let him get hurt, how you failed to take care of him as Grogu had asked. You don't realize you’re crying until his bare finger swipes away a single tear.

And even though you technically already saw his face — albeit bloodied and distorted — you dare not look at him. You keep your eyes trained low, noticing his unbandaged leg, as his hands caress your skin.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, voice so heavy with concern it weighs down against your heart.

You nod. “How long was I out?”

“About 16 hours,” he answers, crooking his finger below your chin to pull your eyes to his.

“What about your Creed?” You ask, closing your eyes tight. 

“You mean more.” 

You expected to hear something more along the lines of ‘you already saw my face’ or ‘I’ve broken it before.’ But no, he says, _‘You. Mean. More.’_ They’re three simple words that carry mountains of blissful promises, an echo of a sentiment you’d heard him say about his child, a different time that feels so far away now.

So, you open your eyes, look up, and one of your hands cradles the side of his face. He’s fully healed and the blood from the nightmare before is washed away, the red stain only living in your mind, allowing you to finally see him clearly.

You’ve always had some sense of his face. He’d given you so many pieces, letting your fingers map out his features and answering your questions so you could sketch them onto paper. Some things you can know without seeing. But having him in front of you — stripped of his armor and helmet, a soft errant curl brushing over his forehead, warm tan skin on display just aching for your fingers to explore them the way they did before you’d ever seen him — it feels like setting down the last piece of a puzzle. 

He’s beautiful in the way that broken stones and crystal fragments are when they form a mosaic, each piece jagged yet fitting together into a purposeful masterpiece.

And the way he looks at you, like you’re _home_ when all he’s ever known is running… you’ll do anything to keep him looking at you like this.

He enters his quarters fully, extending his arms to hold you closer. When he leans his forehead against your own, you close your eyes. His warm breath tickles your skin, the slope of his nose slowly nuzzling against yours, and when you let yourself peek at him again from under your lashes, you see his eyes are softly shut, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

“When did you draw this one?” You ask, voice but a whisper, nodding at the papers on his wall.

“While you were resting... I’m not much of an artist,” he says sheepishly, watching your fingers delicately trace the lines of his drawing. “But I wanted to keep a piece of you with me too.”

You merely exhale, mind reeling. Any word you think of seems to evaporate each time you open your mouth.

“Maybe, when you finish it, we can hang the portrait you drew of me next to this one,” he muses. “So, at least on paper, we can be a clan of three.”

You nod fervently, your foreheads rubbing together from the rapid motion as you stroke the soft peaks of his cheekbones.

“I can’t believe you kept all of these,” you chuckle, gesturing to his wall of art. 

“Of course I did,” he says, fully grinning now, his nose playfully bumping against yours. “They’re beautiful and… they’re from you.”

A sweet sigh escapes your lips, your breath hovering in the small space between your bodies, and you see a flash of pink when his tongue pokes out to swipe a quick line between his mouth. You bite your lip, trying to force your mind to stay silent and not ruin this moment, but knowing you need to address the guilt in your heart.

“You almost died,” you say quietly, the words falling from your lips in broken pieces and shattering on the floor.

“But I didn’t,” he responds, his brown eyes staring directly into yours. “ _You_ healed me.”

“I should have...” you start, not knowing how to finish the statement because, even now, you’re clueless as to what you could have done differently. “I should have been more careful. Maybe if I hadn’t gotten caught, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“I’m used to it,” he sighs.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” you whisper.

“Neither should you.”

It stuns you, causing you to pull your face away just slightly, ignoring the way your skin screams to touch his again.

Pain is universal except to those who harden themselves to it and let calluses develop. This is a natural defense. You know this. But the thing is, pain is protection too, another security the body uses to protect itself. From _harm_. It’s ironic how the ones who feel the least amount of pain carry the largest amount of suffering.

“You shouldn’t have gotten hurt,” you continue, walking over to his bed to sit on the edge. “I promised I’d take care of you.”

This time, he’s stunned. Take care of _him?_

“You almost died, Din. You shouldn’t have even gotten hurt. I don’t know what I would do…”

“I’m right here, _ner kar’ta_ ,” he whispers, moving towards the bed and kneeling between your legs. He cradles your jaw, lifting your gaze to meet his eyes. “I’m right here.”

“You almost weren’t,” you say, your lip trembling below his thumb.

“I’m here. With you,” he says, confident. “I _always_ will be, I promise.”

“Din, you can’t promise—”

“I just did.”

As you look into his eyes, you see a fire that tells you this is more than a promise. It’s more than a tenet of the Mandalorians’ honor and you feel it in your bones. He would traverse every system, tear apart the galaxy, fall to his knees to keep it. This is more than a promise. It’s a vow.

It feels like entering a new atmosphere, gravity pulling you into his orbit until your lips meet his, the same way the horizon of Tatooine meets twin suns each evening. He’s soft — _so soft —_ and solid and still, allowing you to release the worry and trauma you’ve been shouldering on your own against his eager lips. You capture his upper lip, press a chaste peck there, exhale, kiss his lower lip, then breathe him in.

When you pull back by an inch, his body sways toward yours like a pendulum, his eyes closed dreamily as he waits for your lips to return to his.

“Din,” you whisper, a single tear rolling down your cheek as you cup his face between your hands like he’s delicate and holy. “ _Ner kar’ta_ ,” you call him.

He opens his eyes, finding yours glazed with something he’s never seen before but knows is mirrored in his own irises.

“How do you say ‘I love you’ in Mando’a?” 

This time, it’s his lips crashing into yours first, capturing your gasp on his tongue. His fingers card through your hair and find a resting place at the base of your head, nails scratching lightly and pulling sweet songs from your mouth. His other hand settles on the crook of your neck, his thumb drawing circles over your clavicle before gliding over your shoulder, then along the side of your waist, finally falling to the small of your back. A gentle pressure pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress where Din still kneels between your thighs, making you gasp again. But he swallows the sound with his mouth, his tongue eagerly licking past your lips. You dig your fingers into his hair and wrap your legs around his torso to stay balanced, though your mind is drunk on his taste and dizzy on his scent filling your lungs. 

All you know is him. 

The hand on your back grazes across your hip, drags a slow line over the top of your thigh, and squeezes once. Then, you feel fingers tickle behind your knee. In one swift motion, Din pulls your leg higher around him and gently pushes you backward, the hand on your head guiding you as you fall onto the pillow.

He pulls away panting, letting you catch your breath as he takes the opportunity to rake his eyes over your body spread out beneath him. 

You do the same, letting your fingers follow the same path as your eyes. He looks positively wrecked, hair sticking up from where you’d pulled it, pupils dilated, his lips pink and perfectly swollen. His breaths seem to come out more labored — but whether from your touch or the shameless way your eyes drink him in, you don’t know. All you know is the flushed skin below his jaw, how it draws your attention to the strong cords of muscle that run up the length of his neck, how his Adam’s apple bobs slowly below your featherlight finger when he swallows.

As your hands continue their exploration, Din’s thumb tickles your cheek with a tenderness that matches the look in his eyes. The shimmering dust of stars glistens in his irises as he gazes upon you like you’re… 

“ _Mesh’la_ ,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I could say the same about you,” you grin, drawing him back toward you and feeling his smile against your lips.

He settles his weight between your legs, moaning into your mouth when you raise your hips to grind against him. He gives you beautiful, desperate noises and you greedily capture each one with your lips. As he kisses you, your nails scrape down his back, his muscles tensing and rippling under your touch until you find the hem of his shirt. You tug on it once, twice, before he’s finally sitting back and pulling it over his head. Not wanting to have to separate yourself from him again, you remove your top at the same time, leaving you both exposed from the waist up. When his face emerges from the neck of his shirt, he looks down and stills, and somehow, you feel infinitely more beautiful under his lustful gaze.

He attaches your lips again, craving your taste like a famine-starved man, ravenous hands exploring new skin as yours leave crescent moons across his back. He kisses your lips, your cheeks, licks below your ear, sucks under your jaw, down your neck, above your breasts — tasting every soft plane with a hunter’s diligence until you’re soft and pliant below him, bending while he bows.

He rocks into you, eliciting gasps from both your lips. Desperately, you scratch impatiently at the skin above his waistband, your hands attempting to push the material down to no avail. 

“What do you want?” He asks, _pleads_ against your mouth, moaning when you hold his lower lip between your teeth and release it with a slow scrape.

“Want these off,” you mutter against his cheek, his scruff scratching over your lips deliciously. “Want you.”

That’s all he needs before he unbuttons his trousers, kissing you deeper as he bares himself completely to you. 

“Now you,” he whispers, his lips dragging down your body and hovering over your belly, pressing languid kisses to each hip, and biting the skin lower down as he removes your clothes. His breath ghosts over your heat and sends a shudder up your spine, making you arch toward him. His lips roam the soft skin of your thigh, tantalizingly tracing his tongue up toward where you throb for him, and then moving back down leaving you writhing with desire. He gives the same treatment to the other thigh, teasing you with his soft lips until you’re groaning and desperate beneath him.

A surprisingly deft finger opens you to him and your mouth drops agape without a word, pleasure lodged in your throat until he curls his finger just so, pulling the wanton sounds from your lips. As you become more vocal, he strokes you more eagerly, his other hand massaging the plush skin of your body wherever he can reach, watching your face with fascination as he stokes a fire in your belly.

Just as he’s about to put his mouth on you, he feels your fingers tugging his hair, pulling him upward until your lips meld together once more.

“Need _you._ ” The words come out as a growl into his mouth and you lift your hips pointedly to meet his. He hisses at the friction, nodding in understanding when you say, “ _Now_.”

He enters slowly, feeling you stretch around him and engulf him in a heat he never wants to escape. It feels like a release of pressure even as pressure begins to build between your legs. It’s pain and pleasure and perfection all at once. He fills you so completely and he can’t help but think:

_“Meant for me.”_

He breathes the words out loud into your skin, lips trailing a burning path down your throat as he moves inside you, wicked sounds falling from your tongue when he hits a spot that has you seeing stars.

“What?” You gasp, but he doesn’t seem to hear.

Din kisses you everywhere he can reach, one hand interlocked with yours next to your head while the other pulls your leg higher and tighter around his back, giving him access to parts of you he gets to explore for the first time. It makes him think about the galaxies that always reflect in your eyes and how he’s getting to discover each one of them with you now. 

“Or maybe,” he continues his previous thought, a sweet, gentle kiss placed over your heart. “Meant for _you_.”

His pace quickens and you dig your nails into his shoulders as an invisible coil tightens in your belly. He continues speaking low in your ear, some of the words foreign and others in Basic, though you still can’t understand for the life of you when he’s _right there_. As his thrusts become more erratic, your core ignites, and intense heat blossoms over your entire body like a flower. And it’s Din plucking each petal until all that’s left in your mind is one singular truth: _he loves me_. Your eyes screw shut and your toes curl and you’re out of breath and you feel heavy and light at the same time. He moans a ragged sound when he feels you reach your peak, squeezing him until he’s falling over the precipice right after you.

The room is awash in heavy breathing, a fiery warmth scorching every inch of your naked skin as you both pant to catch your breath. You’d like to stay like this forever, you think. No clothes, simply covered in Din. But eventually, he slowly pulls himself out of you and an aching, empty feeling settles in your stomach that screams for him to come back. 

He hovers above you, not wanting to crush you with the immense weight he feels. But he can’t fight you when your hands wrap around his neck and mold his smile against yours, lips moving together like you can’t get enough.

You hold each other in silence, heated kisses cooling off into chaste pecks only when it feels too long since the last. Your breaths slow to a peaceful rhythm, hearts beating in time with each other to a secret song only you two know.

“ _Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum_ ,” he breathes, the flight of his words spinning around the shell of your ear raises goosebumps on your skin. 

“What does that mean?” You ask, your hand cupping his warm cheek.

When he looks at you, he sees ferocity, forgiveness, a future, a family. For so long, he never thought he could feel anything close to this. Then, he met Grogu and, just as quickly, had to say goodbye. But when you look at him with such goodness and grace — all he can think of is how he hopes you’ll stay looking at him like this until he dies.

“‘I love you,'” he answers. "Forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end! I just have an epilogue planned and that's it for my little story. But hey, if you have any headcanons you think would work with this series, please send them my way! I'm on tumblr at transitorywhim :) Oh, and please let me know what you thought of this chapter!
> 
> Mando’a Glossary  
> Cuyan = survivor [koo-YAHN]  
> Kotep = brave [KOH-tehp]  
> Mirdala = clever [MEER-dah-lah]  
> Kotyc = strong [koh-TEESH]  
> Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair])  
> Mesh'la = beautiful [MAYSH`lah]  
> Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum. = I know you forever [nee kar-TILE garh dah-RAH-soom]  
> ⎿ “It's the same word as 'to know,' 'to hold in the heart,' kar'taylir. But you add darasuum, ‘forever,’ and it becomes something rather different.” — Republic Commando: Triple Zero


	4. You Will Never Be Alone Again (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping up this story with lots of fluff :')

  


### xi. 

It’s strange not waking up by yourself, strange to feel blanketed in a kind of warmth and comfort, not even the early morning suns could radiate.

Sometimes, you think this must be some wild fantasy, a sweet sublime dream that could evaporate into smoke if you dare open your eyes.

But each morning, he’s there, holding you with his smiling lips pressed against your neck and his heart beating against your chest. It’s no secret you love him, it’s written all across your face even with a peripheral glance. Falling for him happened fast and a long, long time ago. Yet in these quiet moments when you’re in the place between wakefulness and sleep, you think you’re still cascading over the crest — falling for the tiniest pieces of him that others would need a magnifying glass to see.

Like those delicate wrinkles that frame the corners of his brown eyes when he looks at you, the way they deepen as he smiles. It’s hard to describe how beautiful those lines are… what they mean. Wrinkles don’t develop overnight. No, he’s smiled enough times for those creases to permanently etch themselves into his skin. It makes your heart soar knowing that, despite all he’s been through, he’d allowed himself those sparse moments of happiness. You’ve hopelessly fallen in love with the lines beside his eyes, evidence that a bright side can exist even in the darkest of hours. 

And still, perhaps something you love even more is the way he kisses you until you forget every night you’d ever lay awake feeling alone in the universe.

It’s all so strange in the best, most beautiful way.

Din has given you so much and you only hope he can see your heart, the words carved on it — poems about him, his eyes, the charming lines that tug at the corners. You hope he can see how you’ve kept every word he’s every whispered against your skin, how you’ve inscribed them onto your beating soul: secrets and promises only the two of you will ever get to know, your own name scribbled by his lips a thousand times. You’ll treasure the invisible markings forever. Your heart’s covered in him and you just hope he can see.

With Din, life seems more meaningful, peaceful, beautiful… full. And though frightening shadows still lurk, you know you don’t have to face them alone.

Of course, there are times you worry, moments when he still seems trapped in his head, sinking into deep waters with that silver ball clutched in his hand. But he has you now, his liferaft, one with patched up holes and dents that will always come to pull him back up to the surface.

On those nights when he gets lost in the treacherous tsunami of his mind, you try to give back to him everything he’s so generously offered you. And even as you draw rasped sighs and choked cries and broken moans from his lips, your fingers painting patterns across his body… you know what heals him most are the moments after: the way your breath slows down to match his, how your lips press so gently over his eyelids until they close and project dreams of you as he sleeps.

 _Meant for me,_ he’d once said. _Or maybe, meant for you._

### xii.

In the sacred moments you and Din have to yourselves — no quarry to chase, no demons to face — you find yourselves on beautiful secluded planets like this one, surrounded by towering trees and lush rolling hills and long blades of grass and calm creek cadences. Somehow, each new system is more stunning than the last, and every time he opens the ramp to his ship, he intently watches your wonderstruck reaction as your eyes take in a fantastical new planet and gorgeous environment.

Visiting new planets off-duty comes with its own routine. He walks with you as you explore with wide eyes, sits beside you when you find a colorful plant to draw, lifts his helmet ever so slightly when the desire to kiss you — your cheek, your temple, your shoulder — becomes too overwhelming. And when night falls, you both retire to his ship, where he can freely remove every piece of armor and kiss every inch of your skin until it’s all you can dream of.

Since the confrontation at the Imperial base, Din’s also taken it upon himself to train you. Not in the ways of the Jedi, of course. That, you’re learning to study on your own. Din trains you like a Mandalorian — a zealous approach to weapons and warriorship. He’s a patient and compassionate teacher, and it only ties your heart to his in a tighter knot. With his gentle guidance, handling a blaster is hardly an obstacle and it only takes a month or two before you become well-acquainted with the darksaber he’d hidden in his storage cabinet for so long.

When he’d finally told you the story of the ancient weapon of legend, gravity had seemed to press harder against his back, making his shoulders slope and his head hang even lower. Because, on the day he’d parted with his son, he’d not only removed the mask of his Creed, he’d also acquired the crown of a cursed planet. And he still doesn’t know which one weighs heavier atop his head.

After that, you’d dedicated yourself to training with renewed vigor — wanting to be prepared if ever the target on his back brought upon old Imperial enemies or new ones who sought to usurp him from the throne he never wanted.

Today, much like the other times you’d trained with him, it’s mostly just chopping at trees and bushes. You can’t deny how much stronger you feel just holding the Mandalorian weapon and knowing you can defend yourself even without the Force.

There’s a part of you, however, that feels like Din’s holding back. Whenever you’d asked when you’d be ready to spar with him, eager to test your newfound skills against something that can actually fight back, he’d simply readjusted your stance with gentle hands and asked you to show him the different sword strokes he’d taught you.

“Very good,” Din praises as you step forward and swing the darksaber through the air, slicing clean through a thin branch.

“Well, that tree had it coming,” you scoff, crossing your arms with over-exaggerated toughness. “I’ve had enough of your bark, tree. It’s about time you leaf.”

“Puns. You’re upset,” he says, not a question.

“I’m not upset,” you lie, trying to put on your best sabacc face. But his helmet tilts in a way that’s far too knowing for a darkened, T-shaped visor, and you sigh in defeat under his scrutinizing stare. “Fine. I just… I just think I’m ready to up the ante here. And I feel like you’re holding back.”

He stares at you for a moment, studiously looking you up and down.

“Your posture is too slouched,” he explains, changing the subject again. “Go back to ready position.”

“Don’t do that,” you heave out another exasperated sigh.

“ _Ner kar’ta...”_

“No, don’t _‘ner kar’ta’_ me. Just because you’ve got this shiny sword,” you argue, the glowing saber humming in your hand as you brandish it back and forth, “and you’re technically a king or whatever—”

“Mand’alor,” he interrupts. “And I’m not.”

“—doesn’t mean everything you say is law. I want you to fight me. I’m ready,” your voice softens, stepping closer to him as your pleading hands wrap around the back of his neck. “I want to _really_ learn from you.”

“We’re not doing this,” he answers, despite willingly staying trapped in the cage of your arms.

But you don’t back down. Instead, you lean forward, lips barely a hair's breadth from his helmet before you boldly kiss the spot where his mouth would be, lingering and watching how the tinted panel fogs up. The print of your mouth marks the dark visor and it makes you grin. 

“Fight me, _Mando_ ,” you whisper, all sultry bravado laced with a tease that prickles the skin beneath Din’s armor.

“Ready position,” he rasps like he’s annoyed at himself. 

A metallic, musical sound rings in the empty forest as he unsheathes the beskar spear behind his back. And like a giddy child, you bounce on your feet and step backward, swinging the darksaber in your hands before taking your stance. 

Din stands sturdy just a few feet away, spear gripped tightly in his gloves. He slowly lowers himself, knees bent just slightly, an air of strength and confidence surrounding him. Then, hardly perceptible, he nods.

You dig your heels into the soil, your boots squashing the grass below your feet. With your legs spread wide, you draw the darksaber up to the side of your head, the blinding glow casting a white halo on your cheek. Narrowing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you charge forward at lightning speed, zeroing in on the shiny armor in front of you.

At the last second, Din dodges your attack, stepping to the side and watching as you rush past him. You somehow manage not to trip over your own feet and hastily twirl around to face him again. But Din’s already got the point of his spear aimed at the side of your throat.

“You’re relying too much on your speed,” he explains, spear hovering just below your ear. “Size up your opponent first. Figuring out their weakness is more valuable than using up all your strength. Go again.”

You huff at him but get back into ready position, breathing deep in through your nose and out through your mouth. This time, you take a moment to assess him for weak spots. There aren’t many of course, not visible at least. But you decide the side of his stomach is your best bet.

The moment he nods his head, you take a leap forward and twist your wrist, swinging the blade toward his waist. His spear spins swiftly to block the strike, your weapons meeting in a clash of sparks and high-pitched whistles. You summon all your strength to push the saber against his spear, watching as the silver metal turns orange under the intense laser’s heat. And just when you feel like you’re gaining the high ground as Din’s body bends under your advance, he sweeps his boot beneath you and you fall backward, losing grip of the darksaber.

“That was better,” he says with approval, scanning your body as you lay on the ground and groan loudly. “You okay?” He gently wonders, coming closer and extending a gloved hand toward you.

With shaking fingers, you reach for him. And the moment you feel his grip tighten around your hand, an idea sparks. Without another thought, you yank him forward onto the ground beside you. He lets out a surprised grunt when he hits the dirt and you take full advantage of his shock, straddling his hips and trapping his arms beneath your legs. You extend your hand out to the side and, within seconds, the darksaber comes flying back into your fist. With a bright flash, you ignite the laser blade near his throat.

“That’s cheating,” he says, but you can hear the proud smile in his voice.

“I simply assessed my opponent’s weakness,” you grin, retracting the saber into its hilt and leaning down until you’re nose-to-nose with his helmet. “Just so happens, his weakness is me.”

“Good girl,” he says, and you can’t fight the way his praise sends a fluttering warmth to your belly.

You kiss his helmet again with an exaggerated smacking sound before getting off of him and saying, “Let’s go again.”

Din spars with you for nearly two hours, offering gentle advice each time he bests you (which is most of the time) and showering you with praises whenever you find a way to get the upper hand. It fills you with unmatchable strength and confidence.

“That’s enough for today, _verd’ika,”_ he says, slightly breathless as he brushes dirt off your clothes. “It’s getting dark. Let’s head inside.”

You smile at him, filled with an intense urge to kiss him. So, you reach for his helmet, slowly, just in case. His head turns left and right, checking if the coast is clear, before nodding. You lift the beskar slightly, just enough to reveal his mouth and his neatly-trimmed mustache, and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Thank you, Din,” you whisper as you set his helmet back in its place. You can almost see the bemused look on his face as he stares at you.

And as you walk back to the ship, a re-energized bounce in your step, you decide to tease him one last time, turn around, and smirk. “Meet you in the fresher.”

### xiii.

Din’s hair hangs in waves over his forehead as he gazes down at you, leaning on his left forearm to stay suspended over your body. 

He smells delicious, like his herb-scented soap and the delicious meal he’d cooked for you tonight. His skin is glazed in a radiant sheen and his eyes somehow glow in the dim lighting of your shared quarters.

You’ve learned to appreciate rare nights like this, when there are no jobs to keep him away from you for days at a time. When your eyes get to unabashedly roam over the golden expanse of his skin, without heavy armor or layers of cloth in your way. When you get to listen to his voice for hours on end as his hand traces lines and circles into your skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask him, noticing how his entranced stare focuses on your lips when you speak.

He strokes a calloused finger over your cheekbone, then under the curve of your lips, until his thumb finds a resting place over your chin and gently swipes back and forth.

“You,” he answers honestly, leaning down to kiss you, tasting your smile on his tongue. He lingers there for a long moment, hanging from your lips like a man on the edge of falling though he’s already fallen countless times before.

“That’s all?” You whisper, feeling his hot breath brush against your mouth.

He rests his forehead against yours, his nose rubbing along the side of your own.

“And how much the kid would have loved this planet,” he continues wistfully. “Running through the grass and catching frogs or whatever he could eat.” 

Your soft laugh is bittersweet as he reminisces over his son, the corners of his eyes wrinkling mere centimeters from your face.

“Thinking about how he would have liked watching us train together. He’d probably cheer for you to win,” Din chuckles when you scrunch your nose and shake your head doubtfully. Then, his face softens and his eyes glisten. “Grogu would have loved you.”

An errant tear falls from Din’s lashes and drops onto your cheek, and there's little you can do to keep your own from getting mixed in — a tiny melancholy river forming atop your skin. Your hands cup either side of his face, and you lean forward to kiss the spot where the tear had left a small trail right below his eye.

“In some ways, it’s like I know him now,” you murmur against Din’s cheekbone. “Because I know you. I can _feel_ it — the pieces of you that will be part of him forever. I would love him too. I already do.”

He whispers your name again and again, and each time, it’s like he’s making a wish on a star. 

_“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,”_ you whisper, kissing his lips sweetly.

When you draw backward against your pillow, he latches onto your mouth once more and kisses you until you’re breathless.

“There aren’t words, _ner kar’ta,_ ” he says quietly, fingers brushing gently over your hair. “Nothing can explain what you mean to me.”

When Din makes love, you can feel nothing else but him — his body, his soul, his heart. Every touch and movement is energized by a deep intention to let you know what he sometimes struggles expressing in words. But you’ve become fluent in him, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt how each kiss translates to: _I love you._

Each thrust of his hips means: _I want you._

Each ragged moan reveals: _I need you._

Each soft caress says: _I’d do anything for you._

And each time his forehead meets yours, he declares: _I have found my family._

As you both try to catch your breath, he flops back down onto the bed beside you. He hums happily when he feels you hold tight to him, squeezing his middle with your arms and placing a kiss over his heart.

“Good night, Din,” you mumble, yawning as you nuzzle your face against his chest and bury yourself deep beneath the covers.

“Sweet dreams,” he says, pressing his lips into your hair.

You tilt your chin up just slightly, wanting the last image you see before you drift off to be his beautiful face. But his stare is far away, lost in thought once again. You follow his line of sight, beginning at his shining eyes and landing on the collection of drawings hung beside his door. And the pictures that reflect in his glossy irises are the finished portrait of him beside the sketch of you and Grogu displayed proudly in the center.

Someday, you swear to yourself, those images will be more than just pencil scratches on parchment. Someday, your small chosen family will be whole.

When you close your eyes — your head resting over the warm skin of his chest, his heart marching steadily under your cheek — you dream of the day Din and his son finally reunite, with you standing by his side. And even if that’s still a far-off fantasy, you can rest easily knowing two things for sure:

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up wrapped in Din’s arms. And, for as long as you live, neither of you will ever be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who's read this story. It's been a labor of love for me and I'm especially grateful to readers who left encouraging feedback here or on Tumblr. As for me, I'll be around. I'm working on another Javi x Reader story (inspired by yet another TS song — off evermore this time). If you haven't read my other one, please check it out! It's called "If I Could Never Give You Peace." Talk soon!
> 
> Mando’a Glossary  
> Ner kar’ta = My heart (kar’ta = heart [kah-ROH-ta]; ner = my [nair])  
> Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum. = I know you forever [nee kar-TILE garh dah-RAH-soom]  
> ⎿ “It's the same word as 'to know,' 'to hold in the heart,' kar'taylir. But you add darasuum, ‘forever,’ and it becomes something rather different.” — Republic Commando: Triple Zero  
> Verd' ika = Little Warrior (affectionately) [vair-DEE-kah]

**Author's Note:**

> Moodboards/sketches/gifs made by me, please don’t steal them. :)


End file.
